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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028574">Tears to your innocence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooksorButterflies/pseuds/BooksorButterflies'>BooksorButterflies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>'Hurt', A dash of Sasha and Niccolo, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Beautiful but Broken Jean, Blood, Bromance, Chaste Kiss, Coffee Shop, Comedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fiancé Niccolo and Fiancée Sasha, Floch Forster being annoying, Forests, Gangs, I can't think of anymore tags, Innocence, Jean's Mum's french, Jean's mum - Freeform, Knife Crime, M/M, Memories, Murder, PTSD, Posh-speaking Niccolo, Psychological Trauma, Rame, Rock you to sleep with a lullaby, Sleeping in a field, Star Gazing, Sweet angelic Marco, Sweet love, The Jeagerists, Violent outbreaks, Will-O-The-Wisp, a crown, a dash of comedy, breakdowns, flames, forest, ignorance, sing to sleep, the stars</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:02:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>21,418</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028574</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BooksorButterflies/pseuds/BooksorButterflies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nymphen Prince clashes his world of innocence into the psychological life of a ex-gang member.</p><p>Marco Bodt seeks comfort in the mystical embrace of the forest when the nights won't rock him to sleep. There he meets Jean Kirstien, a boy who's chained under the surface of his cruel world.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Marco Bott &amp; Jean Kirstein, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein, Reiner Braun &amp; Bertolt Hoover, Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover, Sasha Blouse/Niccolo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Marco's wandered off again."  Berthold announced with a sigh as he took a gentle sip of his tea.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"That's the third time this week." Reiner groaned, but made no effort to get off the coach that he was sprawled upon. He wasn't exactly that fond of the young Nymphen Prince and his disturbing  tendency to crawl out any open door.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"I know you don't want to, but as the Prince's babysitters, it's our job to keep him safe." Berthold replied, slipping his coat on with a slight shiver. "It's horribly chilly out there. He could catch a cold."<br/>
</p>
<p>
"Last time I checked he was wrapped like a burrito in his blankets." The older man retorted with an annoyed tone, deliberately taking his time to sit up. He was in no mood to go toddler hunting again.<br/>
</p>
<p>
The amount of times Marco climbed out of his cot and decided that it was perfectly fine for a child of four to go waddling into the forest was beyond numbers. And the amount of times Reiner and Berthold found him buried under fallen leaves while chewing on a variety of bugs, was uncountable.<br/>
*********<br/>
</p>
<p>The sun rays poured from the trees like honey spilling from a jar, gently bathing the child in a soft golden light, as if watching over him.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco Bodt sat crouched near a rock coated in moss, silently watching a snail unfurl from it's shell with utter amazement. Not that it was. But he had a liking to falling in love with everything boring.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"You have four eyes." Marco exclaimed to himself, chocolate eyes widening in surprise. His juvenile laughter that followed, danced among the trees that wrapped protective arms around him.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"I want four eyes." The child muttered to himself before scooping up the snail in both his hands.  With a scowl he suddenly returned it back to the ground, wiping his hands on his muddy shorts.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"You're very yucky Mister." He nudged the snail with his foot causing it to roll back into it's shell protectively.<br/>
</p>
<p>
With a sigh he stood up, retrievied his apple green blanket from floor and wrapped it around himself. It was a gift from Berthold Hoover, the prince's personal babysitter, and given to him on the day he was born. Marco carried it around ever since, not that it was many years, considering he was only four.<br/>
</p>
<p>
He leaned his back against the trunk of the gaint oak, snuggling underneath the cover. "Sweet dreams." He whispered to the curtain of branches above him, patting the bark with a small palm. Why he loved to sleep outdoors under the shade of the ageing oak, nobody really knew. They assumed it was because he loved the greenery.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Just as his consciousness was twining her fingers with the black wisps of his dreams, a flock of ravens tore through the array of trees, flying in haste towards the welcoming blue.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco sat up with a small yelp. "Oh no. Berthold and the scary man are coming." He lunged forward and cupped the snail in his hands again, holding it like it was a treasured stone to his heart. 
</p>
<p>
"Don't worry Mister, I'll protect you from the scary man."<br/>
</p>
<p>
From the cluster of bushes to the right of the child, the crunching of fallen leaves startled him again. A distant figure appeared from behind them, too dark for the Prince to recognise. His heartbeat quickened as he realised that the outline was shorter and thinner than the two man he knew.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Out of instincts, that Reiner had taught and sharpened for him, Marco swung his arm back and hurled the snail at the advancing silhouette.<br/>
</p>
<p>
It met it's mark with a satisfying smack, triggering a shrill scream from the shadows. The person stumbled forward, crashing through the groves and into the sunlight.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco gasped dramatically. He'd picked it off all the romantic soap operas that Berthold watched.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"What was that for?!" The voice belonged to a frowning boy, no older than six. His hazel brown eyes met Marco's with a hardened glare.<br/>
</p>
<p>
The prince's face broke into a beaming smile. He'd never met a child from the outside before. The boy was cloaked in a trimmed grey coat with matching snow white fur around his boots. A hat, threaded together with black wool lay atop his sandy brown strands, concealing them from the frost.<br/>
</p>
<p>
" Hello." Marco waved joyfully, the squeak in his voice hinting at his excitement.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Instead of responding, the other boy turned to look down at the snail with distaste.<br/>
</p>
<p>
He lifted his foot and brought it down on the shell with a 'crunch'.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco screamed.<br/>
</p>
<p>
The glass shattering echo rippled through the vastness of the forest, disturbing the peaceful atmosphere.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"YOU MURDERER!" He shrieked, eyes swimming with tears. 
</p>
<p>
"YOU KILLED MISTER."<br/>
</p>
<p>
The other boy wasn't fazed by Marco's outbreak. "That's a stupid name." He muttered, crossing his arms.<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco hid his flushed face in his hands, shoulders heaving. The dramas that he watched secretly through the slightly ajar door were having a huge affect on his character.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"What's your name?"<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco stopped mid sob. Even after brutally murdering his snail the boy with the ridiculous double shade of hair still asked for his name. Well, demanded more like. However the excitement of meeting another child still beat it's wings faintly in Marco's heart, preventing him from holding a grudge.<br/>
</p>
<p>
He wiped his nose vigorously upon his creamy sweater. " My name's Marco." He said softly while wiping at his bloodshot eyes. "...what's yours?"<br/>
</p>
<p>
"Jean. Jean Kirstien." He paused for a second. "I think."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Snail now long forgotten, the Prince edged closer to the newcomer. "You don't look like me. How old are you?"<br/>
</p>
<p>
Jean drew a circle in the thin layer of mud with his shoe. "Six and a half. I think."<br/>
</p>
<p>
"I'm only four." Marco replied in disappointment, holding up his fingers to Jean's face. "Are you a prince too?"<br/>
</p>
<p>
Confusion painted across Jean's face. "No. Of course not."<br/>
</p>
<p>
"I'm the Prince of the Nymphs." Marco struggled horribly with pronouncing the last word. "I'm not allowed to go anywhere. The scary man said that people want to hurt me." Realisation flashed upon his features. "Do you want to hurt me?"<br/>
</p>
<p>
Jean ignored his question. "Maybe it's because of those black spots you have on your face. Maybe they're a disease."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Hurt darkened Marco's eyes. "The scary man said they're ugly."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Jean leaned forward unexpectedly and prodded the Prince's cheek roughly. "They're not ugly. You look like a lady bug, and Mummy said lady bugs are really pretty."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco giggled. Before he could open his mouth, a voice tore through the air.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"There you are!" Berthold exclaimed, rushing forward to scoop the child up in his arms. "Always in the same place."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Reiner appeared from over his shoulder, wearing a bored expression. "Who's the other guy?"<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco wrapped his arms around Berthold's neck lovingly. 
</p>
<p>
"That's my friend, Jean Killingswine." He turned back to Jean with a grin. "This is my Berthold and the scary man."<br/>
</p>
<p>
"Hey! I'm not scary."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Jean's face was shadowed into something close to fear as he gazed up at the the two towering men. "I think my mummy's calling me." He croaked, and with those last words, he spun around and took off back into the trees.<br/>
</p>
<p>
"Aw. You scared him scary man."<br/>
</p>
<p>
"Shut up, you little brat."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Berthold sighed. "Seriously. You two are like bickering grandmothers." He shifted Marco so that he was cradled against his hip. "Marco darling. I thought I told you not to talk to any outsiders."<br/>
</p>
<p>
Marco buried his face in Berthold's shoulder. "I'm sorry."<br/>
</p>
<p>
"Sure. We both know you're not." Reiner muttered as he retrieved the blanket from the floor and placed it across the Prince's shoulders. "So. What was that kid's name again</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>13 years later....<br/>
</p><p>The prince hitched up his summer robes before taking a step back and frisbeeing his crown at Berthold.<br/>
</p><p>
The crown, twined from the embracing branches of the cherry tree, reflected the blushing pink sky that slowly bled into nightfall, off the stone that set in the centre. A stone of pure diamond that had to be replaced on countless of occasions.<br/>
</p><p>
Berthold, now a man of thirty two, caught the symbol of rule in his open palms with one swift movement. He breathed a sigh of relief when his tired  eyes set upon the still embedded jewel.<br/>
</p><p>
"Your highness, please be more careful of your belongings." He scolded, his motherly instincts kicking in.<br/>
</p><p>
Reiner snorted from under the shadow of the chestnut tree; where he was pretending to be intrigued in a book that lay open upon his lap, but, was rather spying on his friend and the Prince from under his darkened shades.<br/>
</p><p>
"Mister Reiner. Come join us." Marco gestured for him to come over with a grin.<br/>
</p><p>
Reiner shook his head in return. "Sorry Love. I'm getting too old to run around. You'll be the cause of my early death."<br/>
</p><p>
Marco was breathing heavily from dancing around the field, like a maiden in a valley of roses, when he dropped himself next to the older man. "You're only thirty four." He pointed out, before taking a swig from Reiner's bottle, earning a scowl from him.<br/>
</p><p>
After thirteen dragging years of not meeting a child around his age again, the Prince had grown attached to his caretakers, and the three would always be seen around one another. They watched over him like a mother would to her child, aiding him in whatever hardship he came across, and, although he tended to argue with Reiner half the time, he loved them both with such genuinity that he couldn't stay a day without them.<br/>
</p><p>
"Alright you two. Stop glaring at each other, we have to return back to the Palace before sundown." Berthold called as he began retrieving the objects scattered across the grass.<br/>
</p><p>
Marco pouted. "Can't we all snuggle under this tree for tonight?" He asked, throwing his arms around Reiner's neck in exaggeration. Reiner returned his energy by pulling him onto his lap and cuddling him like he was  a giant teddy bear.<br/>
</p><p>
"Please Berthold." He mocked with a youthful tone. "Let his highness be our pillow for tonight."<br/>
</p><p>
"Yes!" Marco squealed just as Berthold let out a "No!"<br/>
</p><p>
"I'm really tired guys." Berthold continued, his arms loaded with the prince's belongings. "All I want right now, is a cup of tea and a warm bed."<br/>
</p><p>
"And a Reiner next to you." The prince added with a sly smirk.<br/>
</p><p>
"I'm already next to him." Reiner exposed, a triumphant beam lighting his face when the other man blushed.<br/>
</p><p>
"Alright Freckles. My Berthold's tired." Reiner said after noticing his weak smile. "I hate to say this, but you can't be my pillow tonight." He stood swiftly before Marco could object, and, cradling him in his arms bridal style, he trotted after Berthold's retreating figure.</p><p> </p><p>    The moonlight kissed the Prince's cheeks, trailing her ashen fingers down his neck, painting him in her hypnotising glow until she was stopped by the battling darkness that spilled across his chest.<br/>
</p><p>
His eyes, orbs that drank in the innocence of the world, were shut, hooded by thick eyelashes that fanned across his skin. Skin that was pale, but carried a faint hint of tan, as if someone had taken a cup of pure milk and released a single droplet of brown into the substance. Freckles dusted his dainty nose and scattered across his soft cheeks.<br/>
</p><p>
One would not define him as beautiful but rather cherubic , in a way you would describe a grinning child or an infant. For the Prince was shrouded by oblivion and caged from the cruelty that threatened to drag him under.<br/>
</p><p>
Marco's eyes fluttered open.<br/>
</p><p>
His ears perked for a sound outside his door, but he was only met with a deafening silence. He never liked the silence. It was a hollow space waiting to swallow him up, to force memories, that wished to be forgotten, out of him.<br/>
</p><p>
With a graceful swing of his slender legs, Marco's feet pressed against the carpet, sending a shiver up his body as the cold bit into him.<br/>
</p><p>
The room, carved from heavy oakwood and studded with gems, stretched out before him. A room that he never found confinement in, but rather a tugging urge to escape.<br/>
</p><p>
When the nights would not embrace him, he would seek comfort in the forest.<br/>
</p><p>
Marco picked his green blanket from it's perch onto the drawers and made for the window. It glittered against the spill of moonlight as he slowly pried it open. The cold air slapped him forcefully in the face and he gritted his teeth with a hiss. It was as if the roaring winds could be seen as they raced into his room, tearing objects from there stands and shattering them against the floor.<br/>
</p><p>
"Whoops." He winced, turning to the door that would not be shut in a few minutes. With a small prayer he leaped from the sill, landing without grace on the outstretched branch below.<br/>
</p><p>
It groaned under his weight He wasn't exactly ten anymore and with leaps every two weeks, he wouldn't even be surprised when the branch snaps.<br/>
</p><p>
Marco clambered downwards, his movements agile and similar to a feline, and once his foot touched the welcoming dancing blades of green, he sprinted forward.<br/>
</p><p>
    Arms outstretched to the tugging wind, he allowed it to dance with his ebon strands, yanking forcefully at his clothes and almost tearing the blanket from his grasp.<br/>
</p><p>
    As he continued further into the heart of the forest he inhaled sharply and screamed. He screamed with every emotion trapped inside him, releasing them into the air, watching them twine fingers and sway together in the night.<br/>
</p><p>
    The night the Nymphen Prince decided to go over the wall.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sorry about the first page layout. It looks all jumbled together and I can't change it. Anyway, feel free to comment your thoughts or point out anything wrong that you see. I'm a nice person(I think).❤</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>JEAN<br/>
Jean swung a final kick at the withering man, smirking as the impact made him retch.</p><p>
    "Next time you touch her- " Jean knelt down to whisper the last words into his ear, "-I'll cut off your throat." </p><p>
    The man whimpered in reply, cowering under his arms as the younger man reached out to pat his cheek.</p><p>
    "Good boy. Now run along, I've got a café to get to." Jean stood with a stifled groan, he'd earned himself a bruise to the ribcage in the fight. Not that it mattered, it was a gift to show him that he'd protected a women's honour.</p><p>
    He brushed his fingers through his sandy hair, attempting to untangle it as he made his way towards the bijou building. It stood out sweetly amongst the rows off shops to its right and left, painted in a soft pastel brown with an ornamented heading that read: Coffee King. And although Sasha had complained a hundred times that it was sexist, nobody bothered to alter it.</p><p>
    Crystal monarch butterflies snaked along the walls, their orange bodies glistening as they dangled over the windows.</p><p>
    A silver bell above the door tinkled musically, announcing Jean's entrance. He smiled, and although to onlookers it looked perverted, it was meant to be genuine as he took in his surroundings.</p><p>
    Five sandy tables stood in a neat pattern, twin chairs on opposite sides, each carrying a thin jar with a crimson rose. The counter at the far end supported a stack of menus and empty coffee mugs sorted together to form the shape of a heart.</p><p>
    "JEAN BOY!" Sasha blouse screamed as she emerged from the storage room at the back. She'd picked the nickname off his mother and seemed quite content everytime it earned a scowl from him.</p><p>
    "Look who finally decided to bless us with his presence." Eren Jeager slapped an apron into the other man's arms. "You're half an hour late Horse face."</p><p>
    "Last time I checked Jeager, I didn't give a flying fu-"</p><p>
    "Language!" Levi Ackerman, the five-foot-three manager, snapped. "But on your godamn apron Kirstchien or so help me I will make you scrub the floors on your knees."</p><p>
    Jean rolled his eyes at the empty threat as he slipped the stand over his head, tieing the cloth around his waist with quick movements.</p><p>
    "So have I missed anyone of 'great importance'?"</p><p>
    Sasha looked up from where she was crouched, a half eaten muffin in her hand. "Not really. Mr Erwin came over to get his usual and..." She squinted her eyes in sudden concentration before allowing them to widen as they rested on Jean's battered knuckles.</p><p>
    "Jean-y you've got blood on your hands." She shot up suddenly, crumbs raining to the floorboards as she bellowed loudly, "GUYS! JEAN'S GOT BLOOD ON HIS HANDS!"</p><p>
    Levi's face crumpled in disgust. "For God's sake Kirschtein, this is the second time this week." He seemed to want to say something else but took a deep breath instead, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just go wash up before another customer arrives. "</p><p>
    And that was when, of course, another customer arrived. 
    The bell sang his arrival, pausing the others in mind movement. They all pulled on their welcoming smiles and dived towards their stations.</p><p>
    The boy who'd walked in was an unfamiliar face, Jean noted as he hastily scrubbed his fingers on his apron.</p><p>
    A look of amazement passed over the boy's face as his eyes rested on the people behind the counter. Jean could have sworn he heard a faint gasp, but from the distance between them he wasn't so sure.</p><p>
    "Hello!" Sasha called out, not with her usual reverberating tone. She seemed to also sense the unusual aura around him.
    "Welcome to the Coffee Queen-" Jean scowled at the change of name but decided not to strangle her, "-take a seat and I'll hop right over or if you're ordering-"</p><p>
    Jean cut her off rudely. "Just get over here." He gestured for the boy to come forward. With some reluctance and the same look of wonder, that Jean was tempted to wipe off, he came to stand before them.</p><p>
    The first thing Jean noticed was the splatter of neat freckles scattered across his nose and cheeks. Ladybug spots, his mother would call them. They stood out sharply against his softly tanned skin, running underneath his russet eyes. His lips, full and pulled in a rosebud, were slightly parted, revealing-</p><p>
    Why am I analysing him. Stop analysing him.</p><p>
    Jean cleared his throat. "May I take your order...sir?" At this point he wasn't even sure if the person sanding infront of him was male. </p><p>
    The boy smiled. A tug of the lips that reached his eyes and brightened them. "Can I have a cup of water, please?"</p><p>
    Choosing not to get distracted by his smooth voice, Jean frowned slightly. </p><p>
    "Water?"</p><p>
    "If you don't mind."</p><p>
    "Dude are you...are you alright?"</p><p>
    "Don't worry sweety." Sasha beamed, cutting in before the freckled boy could answer. "I'll get you a cup of water." </p><p>
    Jean watched as she disappeared into the back room before he turned back to the boy.</p><p>
    "You're not from around here, are you?" </p><p>
    Freckles, because Jean sure as hell wasn't planning to ask him his name, rubbed at his nose as of contemplating the question.</p><p>
    "...No I've...never actually been to a city before. Is that what they're called right? Cities?"</p><p>
    Eren let out laugh. Although it was free from humour Jean still felt like cuffing him around the head. "Seriously?  Were you born in the countryside or something?"</p><p>
    "Shut up Jeager. You were born in the countryside."</p><p>
    "Go eat some hay, Horseface, nobody asked you."</p><p>
    "It's a free country you imp-f$cker."</p><p>
    Eren gasped at that. "Don't you dare call him that. "</p><p>
    Sasha reappeared just in time to stop Jean from swinging a mug at Eren. She set a plastic cup of water on the counter, giving them both a stern mother glare. Well, at least that's what she hoped flashed across her face.</p><p>
    "There you go darling. It's free of charge of course. "</p><p>
    "Thank you." The boy actually bowed in appreciation before taking a gentle sip.</p><p>
    How did this boy even survive his walk to the Café? Especially shrouded in that expensive looking silken gown. He looked like something that walked out of a fantasy film.</p><p>
    If you're not from the countryside, then are you a...tourist?"</p><p>
    "Nobody said he wasn't form the countryside Jeager. You just assumed. Like you always do."</p><p>
    Eren clenched his fists but, for the third time, someone interrupted him.</p><p>
    "I'm actually from the forest."</p><p>
    Everyone turned to stare at Freckles in bewilderment.</p><p>
    "I'm sorry, for a second I thought you said you where from the forest?" Jean asked, although he was pretty sure he hadn't misheard.</p><p>
    The boy nodded, oblivious to their blatant surprise. "I've lived there for seventeen years now. It's a really pretty place."</p><p>
    "Okay this calls for storytime." Sasha announced with a slight fangirl squeal before vaulting herself over the counter. "You are going  to sit yourself down and tell me all about yourself. You're suddenly everthing like those guys I love reading about." </p><p>
    She slipped her arm through his and dragged him towards an empty table. One would think she was in the process of brutally abusing him from the way she shoved him onto the chair, roughly.</p><p>
    "Firstly-" she sat herself opposite him so he could see the mad gleam in her eyes. It was a surprise the boy hadn't called the police on her. "-What's your name?"</p><p>
    A small pink tinge dusted his cheeks and he sunk into his chair slightly. "Marco."</p><p>
    "MARCO! MARCO!" She hollered like a parrot. "Warlike. It sounds so magical."</p><p>
    Exaggerating was almost religious for her. She had a way of even making a piece of toast feel like a Christmas dinner.</p><p>
    Marco. Why did that name sound so familiar. Jean frowned as he tired to search his memory for it. He could have sworn he encountered a Marco once.</p><p>
    "I'm Sasha." Apparently she also loved to introduce herself and her colleagues to the world. "That bright eyed homosexual over there is Eren."</p><p>
    "SASHA!"</p><p>
    She cackled before continuing. "The tiny man that disappeared into the storage room was Levi, I advise you not to step on him. And that," She pointed almost accusingly at Jean who perched next to her shoulder, "is Jean."</p><p>
    The boy's eyes suddenly widened like saucers. "Jean killingswine?"</p><p>
    "...Kirstien actually. But you were close." Sasha patted his hand.</p><p>
    "Hold up. How do you know me?"</p><p>
    The boy suddenly seemed to lose all his previous shyness. "We met when I was four remember? In the forest." Excitement gushed from him as recalled a moment Jean had forgotten. "You killed my snail. I only remember you because you were the first living child I saw and i asked Berthold to write your name down in case I forgot."</p><p>
    A wave of memories rushed at Jean. The snail. The crying child. The forest and the two towering men.</p><p>
    How could I have forgotten you.</p><p>
    Jean lunged across the table and punched Marco in his jaw.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marco didn't expect the searing pain that erupted when the older boy's fist connected with his face. He was thrown off the chair, the brunette girl's horrified scream following as he hit the floor.</p><p>
    Water spilled across the floorboards, the plastic cup rolling to safety under the table. </p><p>
     Marco gritted his teeth to hold back tears that threatened to spill. He wasn't about to cry infront of a bunch of strangers, although the temptation was almost begging him to. Confusion dusted his thoughts. Had he said something that hurt the man? </p><p>
    "Oh my God. Are you okay?" Sasha dropped onto her knees beside him, her skirt fluttering into the puddle and soaking up the contents. She ignored it and instead reached out to gently cup Marco's face, turning it towards the light. </p><p>
    "What the hell Jean!" Eren swore as he grabbed a paper towel from the counter. "You seriously need to calm the f*ck down. " </p><p>
    Jean was about to respond but stopped suddenly, eyes widening as he took in Marco's face.</p><p>
    Where crimson red should have been, his lips were streaked with silver, the metallic grey colour trickling down the side of his mouth.</p><p>
    Sasha froze, her hand hovering over his mouth with the tissue. Marco gently pried it out of her fingers, cursing himself as he remembered that a normal humans' blood was red. There was no way he could lie his way out of this. Not that his lies were convincing anyway.</p><p>
    "Is that- is that your blood?" Eren asked, tilting his head to peer closer.</p><p>
    "That doesn't matter right now." Sasha growled after she saw Marco wince when he placed the tissue against his lip. "Jean. An explanation. Now."</p><p>
    Marco looked up, eyes searching Jean's as they waited for an answer.</p><p>
    Jean's fists clenched at his sides. "He's..." he inhaled sharply before continuing. "It's all your fault. All of it."</p><p>
    Marco wasn't shaken by the words the other male spoke, but rather the distant look in his eyes, almost as if his pupils had lost focus. He was remembering something that Marco could not. </p><p>
    And despite it all, despite Jean's expression, a scoff left Marco's lips.</p><p>
    "And what?" He brushed Sasha off when she squeezed his forearm. He couldn't stop himself from forming his the next words. "You need someone to blame for the-"</p><p>
    "SHUT UP!" Jean attempted to step forward but Eren caught hold of him. "YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT ME YOU FILTHY LITTLE SHIT." </p><p>
    "JEAN!" The short black-haired man shouted as he reappeared from the storage room. </p><p>
    "GO ROT IN HELL!" Jean swore heavily before tearing himself away from Eren and marching out the door, throwing his arm out to shatter a elegant rose jar perked on the table in the process.</p><p>
    Everyone remained fixed for a few seconds, the ticking of the clock the only source of sound.</p><p>
    Sasha was first to speak up. "I'm so sorry." Marco noticed the thin glaze painting her eyeballs when she reached out to rub her nose. </p><p>
    "I don't know what that was all about. He's not- he's not usually like that." Her breath was shaky when she inhaled. "He suffers from...he can't control his anger sometimes and he just...he's not well. Mentally." </p><p>
    She stood abruptly, as if finally noticing the patch on her skirt.
    "I need a Mocha. Eren, Captain, I'm heading into the back room for awhile, do you mind taking over for me?"</p><p>
    Eren's voice was the softest Marco heard when he spoke next. "Sure Sasha. Someone's going to have to go after Jean though."</p><p>
    The raven haired man placed a hand reassuringly on his back. "I'll phone Connie, tell him to keep an eye on him."</p><p>
    "And I need to get that face of yours patched up." She gestured for Marco to follow her.</p><p> </p><p>"Cappuccino. On the house." Sasha managed through a mouthful of biscuits as she placed a steaming mug infront of Marco.</p><p>
    He smiled softly at her, accepting it with a faint 'thank you.'
    She took a seat next to him on  the stack of crates, crossing her legs while taking a noisy stress sip.</p><p>
    The storage was the typical type, as if someone had pulled it out of a kids bedtime story. Dusty concrete floors holding up discarded brooms and old craters. A sink in the corner that dripped every two minutes, cobwebs decorating the flaking ceiling while the lights ahead flickered gently. All in all, it wasn't so bad.</p><p>
    "PTSD." </p><p>
    Marco jumped slightly at the random choice of words she breathed out.</p><p>
    "What?"</p><p>
    "He hasn't been diagnosed, but we think that's what he's suffering from. PTSD." </p><p> 
    "I'm sorry Miss but... I don't think this is any of my business."</p><p>
    She laughed. A short abrupt laugh. "Well he clearly blames you for something. I don't know what happened between you two in the forest but something you said back then triggered him."</p><p>
    Marco's fingers tightened around the mug, as if trying to steal its warmth and allow it to flush the cold tingle in his blood. "I was four years old, Miss. I don't think I was capable of hurting people with my words then." </p><p>
    "Call me Sasha. I'm hardly older than you."</p><p>
    Marco was almost glad at the change of subject, he clung onto it like a lifeline, hoping she would divert the conversation.</p><p>
    She didn't.</p><p>
    "Have you ever heard of Louis Kirstien? " </p><p>
    "...no."</p><p>
    "He was a contract killer. A Hitman. Shot dead by the police 15 years ago." </p><p>
    Marco knew what was coming next, he could already hear her voice sing the sentence before she even spoke.</p><p>
    "He was also Jean's father."</p><p>
    He stood swiftly, startling her. "This is really none of my business, Miss. He wouldn't want me to know." </p><p> 
    She raked her fingers through her auburn hair, sighing roughly. "I can't stop myself. I look at your dumb, innocent face and my brain just screams at me to tell you." Her head falls into her hands. "I'm afraid that this won't be the last time you see Jean."</p><p>
    "I'm actually heading home right now, Miss." He placed a hand on her shoulder warily. "Tell Jean I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hurt him without knowing."</p><p>
    Sasha placed her palm upon his cold hand, giving it a soft squeeze. "I remember the day he came running out of the forest. Ashen faced. He told us he met elves."</p><p>
    Marco remained next to her, a small part of him interested even though his mind screamed at him to leave. To walk away.</p><p>
    "Then he turned to his mother and asked her if he was a murderer. I can't imagine how she felt. Her husband died a killer and her six year old son asks her if he was a murderer. She broke down in tears. I'd never seen her cry before."</p><p>
    The heavily silence that followed was almost suffocating, reaching out disguised fingers to claw at their throats, stroking the fleeting dread to consume the young boy.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jean is just my sweet lovable child who deserves all the love the world can offer.🥺💕</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Bertholdt pressed a palm against the trunk of the oak tree to steady himself. His breath rose in soft clouds, sweat shimmering upon his forehead.</p><p>He'd been frantically racing through the crowded bodies of the trees for over half an hour, searching for a glimpse of black hair amongst the fresh green. He kept forcing himself to believe that the boy did not go over the wall; that he was hiding amongst the leaves like he used to years ago.</p><p><em>He couldn't have gone over</em>.</p><p>"I'm sure he's fine Bert. That kid's as tough as my balls."</p><p>Bertholdt pulled an 'ew' face at Reiner's brazen words, burying the smile he would usually break when the blond man was being bold.</p><p>Reiner, taking the hint, sighed. "I know you're worried for him Love."</p><p>"And you're not?"</p><p>"Of course I am. He's practically my child. But I know he can survive out there." He took Bertholdt's hand in his comfortingly. "That kid's watched so many of your romantic dramas through the crack in the door, I wouldn't be surprised if he's proposed to someone right now."</p><p>"The world out there is not the same as the one's in those stupid dramas!" Bertholdt voice wavered as he yanked his hand back, even though all he wanted to do right then was to throw himself into Reiner's arms and cry. "It's a cruel place where people <em>kill </em>one another. Marco doesn't know that! Heck he's never even heard of someone killing another!"</p><p>Why was it so hard to keep someone chained to oblivion? Why was it that when you held someone back from the truth they found a way to slip through the bars and chase it. Why did one have to cast away their innocence in order to grow up?</p><p>"I know you want to throw yourself into my arms and cry like one of those dramatic woman you watch."</p><p>"Shut up Reiner." Bertholdt scowled and a minute later he found himself smothered against the other man's chest.</p><p>"It's okay Love. He's going to come back."</p><p> </p><p>Jean</p><p>Inhale. Exhale.</p><p><em>Damn it. Don't cry now. There's nothing to cry about</em>.</p><p>Inhale. Exhale.</p><p>Apart from a delirious mother. A dead father. A broken mind. A crippled heart. A meaningless life.</p><p>
  <em>Then why carry on?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Shut up.</em>
</p><p>"Why do you hold your head when you're upset?"</p><p>Jean didn't turn towards the questioning voice. He knew who stood there without looking.</p><p>Connie Springer.</p><p>"What do you want Connie?" Jean's voice was so soft it was a surprise the other boy heard him.</p><p>"Isn't it obvious Rapunzel. I've come to rescue you from your tower." He dropped next to Jean on the worn bench, slinging an arm around his slumped shoulders.</p><p>"I've got something for you." He rummaged through his duffel bag and victoriously pulled out two cans. He placed one in Jean's hands.</p><p>One could always count on Connie to-</p><p>"Orange juice? Seriously?" And here he was hoping he could drown his sorrows in a bottle of alcohol.</p><p>Connie realesed the laugh he was containing. "Alcohol gives you hangovers. And besides, orange juice is high in healthy protiens."</p><p>Jean stared at Connie as if he was an idiot. To be fair, he was. His academic knowledge lacked like the hair on his head.</p><p>
  <em>He's not an idiot. He's a boy who chases what makes him happy. And acedemic knowledge does not. </em>
</p><p>"Orange juice doesn't have proteins you dumbass." Jean cracked a smile as he shoved Connie playfully, burying his previous thoughts. "It has carbohydrates."</p><p>Connie's response was cut as a shadow threw itself across the gravel, cloaking them in it's gentle shade.</p><p>They both tipped their heads back to greet the girl standing behind them. She stood with a stance that made man think twice before approaching her, hard lines of experience etched upon her beautiful face.</p><p>"You're both dumbasses. Oranges contain vitamins." With that, she leaned down to press a loving kiss to both their forheads, her short black hair falling like a curtain around her face.</p><p>Connie swatted at her jovially and she stepped back with a whispered laugh.</p><p>Mikasa Ackerman. The girl who once claimed to have no heartstrings left for anyone to tug on now had more then she could count. And she aided anyone who pulled on them. That's what made her so beautiful, what made Jean hang onto her like a lifeline.</p><p>He loved her once. Loved the black strands that fell like silken water over her shoulders and the pale pink skirt that fluttered around her ankles. But when he realised that she did not share the same feelings, he let her go. He let her chase after the boy with the green eyes, praying for her happiness even if Eren only saw her as a sister.</p><p>"Did you run away again Jean?" She asked, resting her chin on his head.</p><p>"Yeah he did." Connie answered instead. "When Mum called, I literally dropped what I was doing and came running here. "</p><p>"Seriously Connie. You always act like I'm about to die. And stop calling Mr Levi, Mum, it's creepy." Jean scowled as he took a sip of the orange juice.</p><p>He grimaced. Orange had never been a favourite of his, he'd pick apple juice over it anytime.</p><p>Connie noticed his expression. "You're welcome Jean. It's not like a spent a dollar on that. "</p><p>"Thanks man." He turned to smile at Connie. "I mean it. Even though I know you bought it to annoy me because you know I hate oranges."</p><p>Connie answered with a sarcastic dip to his tone. "He reads minds."</p><p> </p><p>The smell of damp wood slapped Jean when he pried his apartment door open. He held his breath as he stepped in, counting to ten until he crossed the hallway and reached the threshold to the living room.</p><p>When he exhaled, his breath left in a faint cloud. He shuddered and reached for the heater that lay discarded in a corner. With a low hum it buzzed to life, the horizontal lines glowing red, like embers after a fire.</p><p>The heater system in the apartment broke 7 months ago, but Jean wasn't bothered. He didn't need the heat anyway.</p><p>He dropped onto the old couch with a drained sigh, body sinking into the cushion almost thankfully as he propped his feet onto the coffee table. The wood shook, and the framed picture standing on it fell face down.</p><p>Hesitantly, he reached out to pick it up, turning it over to check if the glass cracked.</p><p>It did.</p><p>A hair thin line ran from the right edge of the frame to the centre, slashing across the grinning child's face.</p><p>The child stood between a tired looking woman and a beaming man, clasping each of their hands in his small fists. His duo-cloured undercut was ruffled, the front of his white shirt stained with muddy streaks.</p><p>But he was happy. He was so happy.</p><p>Their faces blurred as tears clouded Jean's vision. A fist seemed to cage his breath as his breathing hallowed. He couldn't remember those times with his parents. He couldn't remember his mother before she lost her mind, couldn't picture a moment with his father besides the photograph.</p><p><em>You're a murderer</em>.</p><p>He didn't know whose voice screamed those words in his head. The heartbreaking shriek of his mother or the infantile wail of the freckled child in the forest.</p><p>Tears dripped soundlessly onto the table as he clutched his head in his hands, ignoring the crash as the picture shattered against the floor.</p><p>"I didn't mean to punch you." He sobbed, regret unexpectedly tearing him. "I'm so sorry."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marco</p><p>Everything happened so fast. It was like one of those bad books Reiner read.</p><p>The Prince was tired, his face hurt, and, since he loved dramatising his life, he dropped himself onto the side walk with an arm over his eyes.</p><p>"I can't do this anymore. I need Mister Reiner and Bertholdt." He exclaimed to the vacant road.</p><p>The sun was revealing the first signs of her blushing face, orange streaking across the ebon of the fleeting night.</p><p>A discarded newspaper flew at Marco's face. He made no attempt to remove it. After the terrifying incident at the Café, Marco left the building running like his life depended on it. Which it possibly did.</p><p>But him being himself, he lost track of the winding streets that lead to the forest and instead dropped onto a bench and passed out.</p><p>He'd woken three hours later, but after wandering around like a turtle, he decided to give up again. He had a tendency to give up on things that proved a challenge.</p><p>Now he lay, in his eyes, dying upon a chewing- gum kissed pavement.</p><p>He finally understood why Reiner called him useless. He was practically beyond useless and now was questioning why he even decided to leave his home in the first place. Humans were so bland. Their buildings were nothing like the branch twined one's in his realm. And half their doors were red with golden numbers decorating them and-</p><p>As if on cue, a door across the road from him creaked open. A man stepped out, dressed in a grey sweater with a black beanie on his head.</p><p>He looked up.</p><p>Marco's heart skipped a beat.</p><p>"Jean killingswine." He breathed, frantically scrambling to his feet before the man noticed him. Out of all the apartments in the city, he had to collapse near Jean's.</p><p>Marco turned to run in the other direction, but, because he attracted bad luck like a charm, stepped on an empty can and fell flat upon his pretty face.</p><p>He sprawled like a starfish, or, if one wished to be more poetic, a fallen angel.</p><p>Hastened footsteps hurried towards him and he felt Jean's presence as he kneeled next to him.</p><p>"Woah. Are you okay?" He placed a hand under Marco's arm to help him up but Marco mustered all the strength he had and glued himself to the pavement so Jean wouldn't catch a glimpse of his face.</p><p>"I'm fine." His reply was muffled against the ground. "You may go back to your business, human."</p><p>He practically felt Jean tense next to him.</p><p>
  <em>Dammit</em>
</p><p>It was obvious from the silence that followed that Jean had recognised his voice. Marco snuck a glance at him and squeaked when he found him staring back with his piercing hazel eyes.</p><p> <em>They say that the eyes are the door to the soul. That's why when I look into your pretty eyes, darling, I see innocence. A soul who only wishes for the happiness of others.</em></p><p>Except he couldn't exactly make out the soul of the man crouching next to him. It was as if he placed a barrier in his gaze, barring a glimpse into his flowing essence.</p><p>"I didn't mean to punch you." Jean suddenly said.</p><p>"Of course you didn't." Marco laughed creepily, realising that he had been staring at Jean with his mouth hanging open. He was on the verge of hyperventilation.</p><p>Jean didn't seem to notice. "No. I mean I knew I wanted to hurt you, but I really didn't mean to punch you. It's just..when I'm angry I tend to lash out."</p><p>"I know. The ponytail woman told me."</p><p>He instantly regretted his words when he saw the man's eyes darken. The same sinister expression from yesterday painted his handsome features.</p><p>"What did she tell you?"</p><p>"N-nothing. She said you have a P and D thing and-and I didn't know what that meant, but she was upset so I guessed it was something horrible."</p><p>"I don't."</p><p>"..Huh?"</p><p>"I don't have PTSD." Jean's teeth were gritted when he forced out the words, tone dripping with venom. "I told that bitch a thousand times I don't."</p><p>Marco shrank back. "Please don't be mad at her, she was just worried for you."</p><p>Jean seemed to snap at that moment. The enmity in his gaze washed away with a blink and was replaced with regretful pupils.</p><p>"I shouldn't have called her that. It's not nice for a guy to call a girl that." His voice was almost a hush, as if he was scolding himself.</p><p>A sweet- tempered breeze ran their way, caressing disguised fingers through their hairs; the loose strands of beige resting upon Jean's neck chasing after it.</p><p>A lock of hair fell free across Jean's eyes, fluttering daintily.</p><p>Marco reached out abruptly to tenderly brush it away. When his fingertips skimmed across the warm skin of his forehead, Jean's eyelids fluttered shut. Peace smoothed his features and Marco was almost surprised at the sudden change. The sudden ease that cloaked him.</p><p>He looked...beautiful.</p><p>But the moment didn't last long. Jean's eyes tore upon, fear flashing behind them for a second before he caught Marco's hand in his.</p><p>And twisted it back with a sharp crack.</p><p> </p><p>Jean</p><p>Fingertips, gentle like a mother's kiss, grazed his brow. Warm breath tickled his cheek as he heard the young man exhale, the affection in his touch allowing memories to come to life. A swarm of golden butterflies exploding behind his closed lids.</p><p>
  <em>Everything's going to be alright, my sweet child. Mummy will always love you.</em>
</p><p>Calloused finger threaded through his hair, a lullaby to ease him to sleep emitting from his mother's lips as she sang him to sleep.</p><p>
  <em>It's alright Jean, we've got you. No one's ever going to hurt you again.</em>
</p><p>Mikasa's stern voice hushing his sobs as she cradled his head, soothing his fears with the sound of her heartbeat and empty promises.</p><p>
  <em>It was going to be okay.</em>
</p><p>And then it wasn't.</p><p>The reeking scent of alcohol washed upon him. The cold wall pressed up against his back. A hand reached out to grasp his face.</p><p><em>Protect yourself, my sweet child</em>.</p><p><em>Protect yourself, Jean</em>.</p><p>Panic surged through him. He remembered grabbing the beefy wrist that threatened to hurt him, twisting it back until–</p><p>A pained scream ripped him away from his thoughts.</p><p>He hadn't noticed that he was clutching Marco's wrist in his hand until the boy desperately tried to pull away.</p><p>He released him and watched in slight confusion as Marco pressed his forehead to the sidewalk, clutching his arm to his body with soft whimpers.</p><p>
  <em>What was he doing?</em>
</p><p>"What's wrong?"</p><p>Marco dragged his gaze up, face contorted in pain. His eyes swam with tears not yet shed, fear coating his glistening iris.</p><p><em>Such fear for such a pretty face</em>.</p><p>Jean was about to repeat his question, this time attempting to lay a hand on Marco's arm. To try and comfort him.</p><p>But the boy backed away.</p><p>Or rather he scampered backwards like a frightened animal, a small shout escaping from his trembling lips. He outstretched an arm between them. To ward Jean back.</p><p>
  <em>Why would he do that?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Beacuse you broke his wrist, Idiot. You let your past envelope you again and you broke his wrist.</em>
</p><p>"I–I..I didn't– I didn't mean to." He stuttered the same sentence he used before.</p><p>Marco cowered further away.</p><p>Nevertheless, Jean stretched out a hand to calm him. To show his genuine regret.</p><p>"Please don't–don't hide away from me." His fingers rested falteringly on Marco's knee, his voice almost a plea. "I'm not usually like this. I'm not usually so–crazy."</p><p>Although he did feel crazy. Tears were rolling down his cheeks when he had no right to cry. He couldn't bear the thought of someone being afraid of him. Again.</p><p>"I'll wrap it–I'll wrap it for you. Just please...please don't be scared." He traced a circle upon Marco's knee unintentionally. It was a gesture his mother used to do to get him to smile.</p><p>Marco pulled his leg back with a broken sob. Fear and pain still twin mirrors in his shimmering pupils. He drew his wrist closer, fingers tightening more securely over the fracture.</p><p>Jean threw himself forward to stop the boy from hurting himself more than he already was. "Don't squeeze it. Please. It's not going to help."</p><p>And so gently, like he was cooing an infant away from a sharp object, he interlaced their fingers with a whisper. Continuously promising that he wouldn't harm him again.</p><p>***********</p><p>BooksorButterflies: Thank you so much again for reading this and for leaving kudos. You are all sweet angels and if I could I would hug you through the screen I would.❤</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marco</p><p>By the time Jean had dragged Marco, who had latched himself to the street lamppost, and convinced the passing couple that he wasn't kidnapping him, Marco's bones were already merging together to seal the fracture.</p><p>He wasn't sure how he was going to break it to the other man that his bones healed almost ten times faster than a normal human, considering he was a Nymph.</p><p>Jean was hectically searching through the kitchen cabinets for a first aid kit, muttering words that Marco did not know the definition of everytime he slammed a door or drawer shut. It was coming to a miserable conclusion that he did not have an aid kit.</p><p>Marco kept his healing wrist on his lap as he swung his legs from his perch on the counter. The kitchen lacked a table and chairs so Jean hauled him onto the counter without a second thought.</p><p>He tilted his head now as he watched the other man flit back and forth. He was wary, holding himself stiff everytime Jean came near him. The feeling that bloomed like roses in his chest was unfamiliar, he'd never feared someone before. Never felt a fear that screamed at him that the other person wanted to <em>harm</em> him. That was abnormal.</p><p>The pain that had tore through him when he felt his bone snap scared him. It scared him to think that the man with the weird haircut wanted to hurt him. That's why when Jean offered to bind the wound, Marco had attempted to run. But, because he barely reached the other man's nose, he was tackled into his arms. Which, considering he'd just broken his arm, was a violent move.</p><p>"Finally! " Jean let out a triumphant squawk from where he was kneeling. He stood, barely missing the open cupboard door, a thin trail of sweat clinging to his forehead. A small part of Marco wished Jean smashed his head and passed out so he could escape.</p><p>
  <em>When did I become so dark?</em>
</p><p>"Hold on a second." Jean tore at the wrapper around the bandages with his teeth, his eyes uncertain when he came to stand infront of Marco. It was clear he didn't know whether he should keep his distance or explode his personal bubble by steeping in between his legs.</p><p>"I don't need your bandages." Marco announced, then mentally smacked himself for making it sound so rude.</p><p>"I mean, thank you, but...my wrist already healed. See ." He flexed his hand, rotating it in a full circle.</p><p>Jean blinked.</p><p>Marco blinked back.</p><p>"A–are y-you–" Jean stuttered helplessly and it reminded Marco of the inarticulate sounds Bertholdt would make whenever Reiner wrapped his arms around him from behind.</p><p>"I'm a Nymph. I told you that when I was four, but I guess you can't remember." He paused for a second, not allowing Jean to take it all in. "Come to think about it I don't even know how I remember.<em> But.</em> My bones can heal in a matter of minutes <em>and</em> my blood is silver."</p><p>"I think I'm dreaming." Jean murmured after gaping. "Someone f*cking pinch me."</p><p>Marco pinched him.</p><p>Jean yelped and stumbled backwards, a hand flying to his right cheek that now bore two nail marks. "Christ! You don't have to use your nails!"</p><p>"It's only fair, since you broke my arm." Marco wanted to pout but contained himself. "Why did you do it? I didn't even know people were capable of breaking other people's bones."</p><p>Jean's face fell. Again. Marco knew he was going to recite apologies like poetry so he jumped in first.</p><p>"Forgive and forget. That's what Bertholdt told me." He smiled, hoping it would rest the man's worried face. "I'm already forgetting everything."</p><p>"Is..is that another one of your—abilities? " Jean wrung his hands together forcefully Macro was almost concerned he was going to twist them in a wrong angle. "To forget stuff?"</p><p>"No. Well I don't think it is. As far as I know Nymphs can only heal and sing really well. Except that might not be true because Reiner's voice sounds like he's drowning."</p><p>"Who?"</p><p>"Reiner. He was the scary man from the forest. He's my babysitter. But he said I don't need one anymore so he officially announced himself as my father. And Bertholdt's the mum. Except he isn't exactly happy beacuse-" he realised he was rambling and that Jean was staring at him with a concerned expression. He cleared his throat. "Sorry. I tend to talk too much when someone gets familiar."</p><p>"Ah. No it's fine. I like it. I like hearing you talk." The tips of Jean's ears burned as soon as the words left his mouth. "I mean, you have...a nice voice."</p><p>"Thank you, Mister. You have a nice voice too" Marco didn't even notice him blush. "Except when you scream, you sound like a startled cat."</p><p>"Um. Thank you?"</p><p>"You're welcome."</p><p>Jean shook his head. "For someone who just got his wrist snapped you're speaking very confidently. Considering I'm also your attacker."</p><p>"And for someone who just found out that Nymphs exist, you're taking it pretty lightly. And besides," he leaped of the counter, bumping his nose against Jean's chest accidentally, "you have nice eyes, so you can't be evil. I can't exactly make out how your soul looks, but you have a sweet smile." He stopped to think. "Did I even see you smile?"</p><p>"Maybe?" Jean offered when Marco darted across the tiled floor to the fridge.</p><p>"I've heard about these. Human food hoarders." He exclaimed excitedly, but his grin fell when he threw it open like it was the door to a throne room.</p><p>"Well." He said disappointingly as he peered inside. The 'food hoarder' contained a dozen cans with depressing brown wrappers and a stack of microwave dinners. "I was hoping for a cake."</p><p>"I could..get you some. If you want."</p><p>"No need. I eat too much cake already." He shut the door and was about to turn away when a photo caught his eye. It was a held up by red butterfly magnets and showed a coloured image of a young woman smiling down at a book. Her almond hair was tied back in a ponytail, loose strands hanging across her face.</p><p>Marco reached out to trace her smile. "She's so pretty." He breathed. "Is she your girlfriend?"</p><p>Jean coughed into his hand. "That's actually my mother."</p><p>"Ah." Marco did not seem fazed that he'd just called someone's mum pretty with a dreamy look in his eyes.</p><p>"Um. Marco?"</p><p>Marco turned back to face him with a half smile that he knew made him look like a moron. "That's the first time you said my name."</p><p>"Oh, yeah." Jean scratched the back of his neck nervously. Really, if there was one person in the room who had the right to be nervous it was Marco.</p><p>"I was—thinking? That maybe you'd like to come down to the cafe." He glanced quickly towards the window. "With me."</p><p>Oh was he adorable when he was shy. No worries, Marco thought as he leaned back on the fridge, he watched enough romantic dramas to know how to play in this situation.</p><p>"Do you?"</p><p>"Um. Yes?" Another dart towards the window with his eyes. "Yes. I do."</p><p>"I'm starting to believe 'um' is your favourite word."</p><p>"It's just that. I don't want to leave you..alone. Here." Another glance.</p><p>Marco was tempted to plaster his face upon the window to see what was bothering the other man, but the walk seemed too long. "I'm not planning to stay here. I'm going home."</p><p>"Obviously. But Sasha can drop you there in her car after her shift ends."</p><p>That got his attention. "I get to sit it those magic metal boxes with wheels?"</p><p>Jean frowned slightly. "Sure."</p><p>Marco beamed at him. "And do I also get another free Cappuccino from the ponytail girl?"</p><p>"...yeah?"</p><p>Marco clapped his hands together like he'd closed the deal of a lifetime. "Okay then."</p><p> </p><p>Jean</p><p>"Welcome back, sweety!" Sasha exclaimed once the bell stopped tinkling. She wrapped Marco in one of her motherly embraces before leaning up to kiss Jean on the cheek.</p><p>He silently hoped she cut her lip on his stubble and allowed the disappointment to show when she didn't.</p><p>"Is it okay if I stay here again, Miss?" Marco asked with his usual sweetness that made Jean want to smack him behind the head.</p><p>"Of course you can. You're welcome to sit here anytime you want." She linked her arm through his as she lead him towards the counter. "I'm Queen of this café, darling, my word is law."</p><p>"Try saying that to Levi." Eren said while nodding in greeting to Marco.</p><p>Sasha scoffed. "Oh please. We all know how the old kings never want to give up the throne to the beautiful princesses. I've sat through 11 years of History classes. I know my shit."</p><p>"I wish he was here right now so he could kick you through the wall." Jean muttered as he tied his apron on, swinging himself over the counter.</p><p>"Anyway, ignoring all the evil men in the room," She turned back to Marco who looked paralysed, "how are you, Sweety? You surprised me when you walked in with Jean-boy. He didn't punch you again did he?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>Jean relaxed. At least he knew when to keep his mouth shut.</p><p>"He broke my wrist."</p><p>A deafening silence fell over them. Even the customer, that walked in with her pram, froze silently.</p><p>Jean held his breath as Sasha blinked up the boy she still held by the arm. He knew what was going to happen next. She was going to drag Marco to the table and make him tell her what happened.</p><p>She dragged Marco to the table to make him tell her what happened.</p><p>The woman with the pram unfroze near the doorway and made her way towards Eren with a worried smile. He broke out of his expression of horror and returned the gesture, commenting on her sleeping child.</p><p>Jean strained his ears to hear the conversation between Marco and Sasha but their voices were drowned out by Eren's and the hum of the coffee machine.</p><p>From the way she was holding Marco's wrist in her hand like it was a wounded bird and the shocked expression on her face, it was clear that he had told her how it healed.</p><p><em>Could that boy ever shut up</em>?</p><p>Surprisingly, he didn't feel any hate towards the boy, just a pang of annoyance for declaring Jean's actions out load. There was something about him that drew Jean towards him. Maybe it was his huge chocolate eyes that seemed to drink in the innocence of the world.</p><p><em>Innocence</em>. He sneered. <em>Innocence was sacrificed in order to grow up. Innocence could be lost or taken in a matter of seconds</em>. The boy wasn't innocent, he was just naive.</p><p>Sasha's voice rose slightly and he was able to catch her last words.</p><p>"When a person is scared, Marco, he'll try to protect himself. Even if it means he has to hurt the other person."</p><p>******************</p><p>BooksorButterflies:&lt;span;&gt; I just need to say that I hope I haven't hurt anyone with the topic of PTSD. (I pray I haven't). I know it's no joke and I would never treat it as one. People close to me have been diagnosed and they are the most beautiful people I know. So if I have touched a soft spot for anyone, please tell me and I will correct myself.&lt;/span;&gt;</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The streetlights flickered on like an array of beacons, illuminating the street and battling the dark that bled through the sky.</p><p>Jean inhaled the fresh breeze that rolled towards him, smiling when it burned through his chest, expanding like an unclenching fist. His grey sweater flapped after the wind, attempting to chase it down the road.</p><p>The stars were unveiling their glittering faces above. Soldiers standing proud around the moon that sat upon her throne of darkness, exposing her beauty when the world below began to rest.</p><p>A laugh rang through the night and Jean turned to the sound. Marco stood with Sasha as she yanked down the steel shutters, cursing loudly when it creaked to a rusty halt halfway. He laughed again, suppressing it with a hand over his mouth when Eren tried to help her but only succeeded in making the shutters shriek as if in pain.</p><p>Levi huffed in annoyance, strapping on his motorbike helmet before shoving Eren and Sasha, who had begun bickering, out the way. He stood on his tips and with one tug of his arm brought the blind down. If he was proud of his accomplishment, he didn't show it.</p><p>"Why can't you be more like that, Eren." Sasha said, once the motorbike engine died further into the city. "You're practically useless."</p><p>"You're one to talk. What happened to all that 'country girl' boasting?"</p><p>Jean watched them throw insults at each other for a while before he faced away, trudging back towards his forsaken apartment, scolding himself for not bringing a jacket with pockets so he could stuff his hands inside.</p><p>"Bye Mister Jean!" Marco called after him and he knew that if he turned around he would see the young man waving dramatically.</p><p>"Seriously, stop calling him Mister Jean, he's not your principal. Try <em>Horseface</em>." Eren offered and Jean bit back a retort.</p><p>He wasn't in the mood to have a verbal war with Eren. ..Scratch that, he was always in the mood, but right now his thoughts were focused on Marco.</p><p>When he was in the midst of dragging Marco up his apartment stairs, he noticed a man watching them from across the street. Although the lower part of his face was shrouded he hadn't bothered to hide the fact that he was studying the two boys with his eyes, a slight tilt to his head.</p><p>Jean pretended not to notice at first, but when he saw him staring up at the apartment window when they were inside, his heart fluttered. It had been a long time since he last felt fear.</p><p>The man walked away once they exited together, but Jean wasn't convinced they were safe. He'd dealt with these kind of situations before, though he never had to worry for someone else's protection.</p><p>He pointed his face towards the glittering stars, closing his eyes in a silent prayer.</p><p><em>Please God, keep that stupidly sweet boy safe. Don't make anyone harm him or Sasha</em>.</p><p> </p><p>MARCO</p><p> Marco reached over to adjust the knob on the radio so he could turn off the dreadful yodelling that was emitting from the speakers, but Sasha smacked his hand away.</p><p>The forest was another three miles away and Sasha's taste in music and driving skills were turning Marco's stomach over. He had an undying desire to throw up the coffee and biscuits he previously ate, but mustered everything he had to hold it in.</p><p>"If you vomit in my beautiful blue Beetle, I will kill you. " She dragged her eyes away from the road to grin at him. "Notice the alliteration there. I deserve a medal."</p><p>Marco nearly died on the cream seat when she swerved to miss an upcoming lorry.</p><p>"C–could you please focus on the road, Miss."</p><p>"If you keep calling me Miss, then I'm going to intentionally run you into that building, Sweety. And your dashboard does not have an airbag."</p><p>Marco didn't understand what she just said, but for the sake of not crashing into the building surrounded by a metal gate, he kept his comments back.</p><p>He tried to divert his attention to the fact that he was going back home. To his Palace twined from branches, burgeoning leaves and eternally blooming flowers. To his bed of jade satin, carpets of coiling gold thread and glass windows that glittered like the ocean set alight everytime the sun hit them. He was going back to waking to the sound of the birds singing their ballads and dozing to Berthold's humming. He'd only been away for two days, willingly escaping, but he still missed the place.</p><p>A small part of him, however, whispered of how he was about to walk away from the human world and cage himself back in the forest where he would forget the people he just met.</p><p>Granted they were weird, swore alot and one specific man beat him more than he was ever beaten in his seventeen years of living, but he couldn't help but think he was going to miss them. Miss the city full of dull apartments and cars that polluted the air.</p><p>"So." Sasha's voice cut him out of his thoughts. "Tell me about the forest?"</p><p>He fidgeted in his seat. "What would you like to know?"</p><p>"Are there any women in the Palace? It's a random question but I've always been taught that Nymphs were female nature spirits. But you're a guy, so now I'm confused."</p><p>Apparently, humans were taught about the creatures that dwelled in the forests, in school. Sasha told Marco back at the Café that it was like being taught about dinosaurs, people could choose to belive in them or not. She had chosen not to because the thought strained her brain.</p><p>"There's lots of women in the Palace. They're the ones that teach me." He smiled as he recalled their faces. "Historia's my favourite. She teaches me how to play the flute and harp. Then there's her evil girlfriend, Ymir, who trains me to hunt using a bow and arro– "</p><p>"Hold up. Historia, as in petite, blonde Historia with her freckle-y bestie who has a sexy voice and long legs."</p><p>"..Yes?"</p><p>"Woah." She breathed. "I'm going to phone her up tonight and demand answers."</p><p>A second later, Sasha's phone began to ring. A mentally agonising voice of a child hollering about 'potatoes and molasses' sang over the sound of the country song on the radio.</p><p>Her screen flashed with the image of a grinning boy with a grey buzz cut, the heading reading <em>Connie the</em> <em>Avatar</em>.</p><p>She swiped the screen before pressing it to her ear. "You better be calling me to tell me we're having pizza at your place."</p><p>Her teasing grin dropped when the boy on the other end of the line answered her, his voice a frantic rush.</p><p>"What do you mean <em>trashed</em>? Is Jean okay?" She bit her bottom lip as she listened to the boy's muffled reply, a crease appearing between her brows.</p><p>"Alright. I'm coming over right now. Give me ten minutes." Her voice had lost all it's usual joyful pitch, her tone hardened as she hung up the phone.</p><p>Marco cleared his throat and was about to ask her what happened when she fixed him with a serious glare.</p><p>"I'm going to have to turn back. I'm sorry, Sweety, but someone's broke into Jean's apartment and I need to check if he's okay." She placed her hand on top of his while she reversed the car. "I'll drop you home straight after. I promise, just bare with me for another half an hour."</p><p>Marco sat in a daze as she sped back down the road, the wind from the open window snatching at his hair.</p><p>Why were human lives so dramatic? The only person he'd ever have break into his room was Reiner. He would sneak in when Marco was sleeping and hide under the bed so he grab his ankles and cackle evilly when Marco would scream and burst into tears. Even though he was ten the last time that happened, he could still remember the cold fingers locking around his skin.</p><p>Marco shuddered at the thought, jolting forward when Sasha pulled the car to a screeching halt. She turned off the engine before throwing open the door.</p><p>"Wait in here. I'll be right back." And with that brief instruction, she leaped out the car and bounded up the stairs to Jean's apartment, taking two steps at a time.</p><p>Marco sighed. He was never good at sitting still and to his luck the car was full of interesting contraptions. A flap above his head showered papers onto him when he tugged it down, a small mirror lighting up.</p><p>He signed agian as he bent down to retrieve the scattered sheets, the seat belt tugging against his stomach.</p><p>While he was busy trying to figure out which button released the belt, someone knocked on the window.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>JEAN</p><p>Sasha burst through the door, nearly tripping over the coffee table that lay overturned, it's glass covering shattered.</p><p>She hitched up her skirt as she stepped over the scattered objects, clasping Jean by the arms when she reached him.</p><p>"I'm okay." He reassured her. "I wasn't here when they broke in."</p><p>"Those bastards destroyed <em>everything</em>!" Connie exclaimed from the bathroom. "They even clogged up the toilet!"</p><p>The rooms in the apartment resembled a scene after a storm. The beige curtains were strewn across the floor, knife slashes painting the sofa and mattress. Shards of glass from the plates and cups in the kitchen added a new pattern to the tiles, pillow feathers fluttering against the wind that blew in from the window that was smashed with a discarded lamp.</p><p>Whoever did the damage even took their time to peel strips of the grimy wallpaper. Jean never liked the wallpaper anyway, it was a depressing shade of yellow.</p><p>Sasha gasped. "Oh God, they've beheaded Spiderman." She scooped the headless plush doll off the floor and hugged it to her chest. She'd brought it for Jean on his thirteenth birthday, the time period when he was obsessed with Marvel.</p><p>He sighed as he caught sight of the head stuffed inside the trash can. People were such violent swines sometimes.</p><p>He pressed his head against the cool surface of the still intact window, trying to calm his temper as he gazed at the empty road.</p><p>
  <em>Empty road?</em>
</p><p>"Sasha?"</p><p>She looked up from where she was fussing over Spiderman like a concerned mother. "Yes dear?"</p><p>"Didn't you bring your ugly Beetle with you?"</p><p>"My <em>beautiful</em> Beetle. And yes<em> I did</em>. God, Jean, I'm not– "</p><p>"It's not there."</p><p>"..what?"</p><p>He strained his neck further out the window. "Your car's not there."</p><p>She stood abruptly, dropping the doll and crunching over the remains of a vase as she rushed towards the window. She threw half her body over the sill, nearly tipping out but Connie caught hold of her waist.</p><p>"No. <em>No. No</em>. I left <em>Marco</em> in there!" She spun on her heel, ignoring Connie's concern and raced back out the door.</p><p>Connie chased after her and Jean, with one last glance at the distressing scene, followed.</p><p>Sasha stumbled when she jumped the last step, catching herself on her hands as she hit the pavement. Her skirt tore around the knees but she didn't care. She struggled back upright, spinning in a full circle, her face contorted with dread.</p><p>"MARCO!" Her voice broke when she screamed his name.</p><p>Jean sprinted forward to grab her before she took down the street in pursuit of a car long gone. "Sasha, calm down."</p><p>"I <em>can't</em>, Jean. They <em>took</em> him and it's <em>my fault</em>." She dug her fingers into her hair. "Oh God. I shouldn't have left him in the car. What if they hurt him? It's going to be my fault."</p><p>Jean was surprised to see tears rolling down her cheeks. He didn't know that she cared so deeply for the other boy.</p><p>"Hey. Don't cry, Sasha." He pulled her into his arms, awkwardly patting her back. "I'm sure he's fine. He probably drove off himself."</p><p>"He doesn't know how to drive." She sobbed against his shoulder. "He didn't even know what the key was for."</p><p>"We'll find him. You don't have to cry."</p><p>She pulled away, sniffing loudly. "I need to call Niccolo. He's got a truck."</p><p>Connie frowned. "Do we even know who stole your car?"</p><p>"I have someone in mind." Jean said. "I'm sure he wasn't thrilled when he heard I beat up his guys ."</p><p> </p><p>"I do believe you only use me for my truck. "</p><p>Jean rolled his eyes at Niccolo's posh accent, clambering next to Sasha, Connie draping himself half onto his lap.</p><p>"Of course not, dear. I use you for your cooking skills, these guys use you for your truck." Sasha corrected him, earning a scowl from the blond man.</p><p>"I daresay, Honey, weren't you just crying a second ago?"</p><p>"I was. But now that you're here, I'm feeling much better. "</p><p>He blushed. "You spoil me, old girl. Give us a kiss."</p><p><em>NO! Don't give him a kiss</em>. Jean silently screamed, caught in one of those moments when he wished he could communicate telepathically with Sasha.</p><p>He shut his eyes when she leaned towards Niccolo. There was a wet smack of lips, a hum of appreciation, and a chocked cough. The cough belonged to Connie, who pretended to be interested in a speck of dust on his thigh.</p><p>It was going to be an enduringly romantic journey to the warehouse. Jean wasn't even going to be surprised if they started making out at every traffic light.</p><p>The warehouse was a thirty-five minute drive to the North and if he knew this was what he was going to be dealing with, he would have insisted on walking.</p><p>"I say, Jean-dear, isn't it awfully rotten of you to drag a young woman to a chancy warehouse?"</p><p>"Belive me, Niccolo. She's very willing."</p><p>"Still. I believe it's rather uncivilised of you. A chap should take it upon himself to rescue his boylady, not drag women with him. Especially my Sasha, heaven forbid."</p><p>Jean was tempted to point out that he <em>was</em> dragging Sasha with him, but composed himself. He reminded himself that an argument with Niccolo could lead to therapy.</p><p>"Marco's not my boylady. He's just a boy." He said instead.</p><p>"Marco?" Niccolo tutted. "Dreadful name. Poor chap probably had tipsy parents."</p><p><em>Don't punch him. If you punch him, he might loose control of the steering and you'll get into an accident</em>.</p><p>Connie rescued him from Niccolo's lecture on the 'evil of alcohol'.</p><p>"So, Niccolo? When's the wedding?"</p><p>Niccolo stopped his rambling like a fright train hitting its brakes. "Who's wedding, M'lad?"</p><p>"Yours and Sasha's. You've been engaged for a year now."</p><p>"Nothing wrong with being engaged for a long period of time. " Niccolo answered, throwing hearts at Sasha with his eyes. "Especially when it's with this dashing women. I am but a mere moth to her entrancing flame."</p><p>Sasha giggled, smacking his arm. "Stop it, you old goat."</p><p>"OH LOOK!" Jean practically screamed before they could start eating each others faces again. "There's the warehouse. Thank the God and thank <em>you</em> Niccolo, it was awfully nice of you to drop us."</p><p>Niccolo beamed at him like a proud father. "I'm here for you whenever you need me, dear boy."</p><p>Jean stopped himself from laughing rudely. "I don't think we'll <em>ever</em> be needing you agian. I appreciate the help though."</p><p>"You have a beastly attitude, Jean-dear." And with that Niccolo waved him off, giving his fiancée another quick kiss.</p><p>"That man is the stuff of nightmares." Jean said once they exited the red vegetable truck.</p><p>Connie shuddered. "I couldn't agree more."</p><p>"Hey! That's my future husband you're taking about."</p><p>Jean tipped his head in Sasha's direction. "You're going to have to purchase a 19th century dictionary before you marry that guy." He dodged a slap from her before marching towards the looming iron doors of the abandoned warehouse.</p><p>Gangs using isolated warehouses was such a cliché. It was a surprise the cops hadn't raided them, they'd be amazed by who and what they found inside one.</p><p>The main entrance was held together by rusty chains; it was clear that nobody had unlocked them in years from the way the decay had molded the chains with the metal entrance. Which meant that there was a back door that the group used.</p><p>They called themselves the Jeagerists.</p><p>Apparently Eren Jeager had sheltered a man from the cops for a week and the man was so grateful he promised to be forever in his debt, naming his first gang after him.</p><p>Jean signalled for Connie to stop humming before he pushed down the handle to the single door at the back. It creaked open, the hinges shrieking into the hallow darkness that spilled out from it's gaping mouth.</p><p>Connie squeaked. "You know what. I'm going to stand out here and guard your backs."</p><p>"I will never forget this betrayal." Sasha hissed at him, slipping her hand into Jean's with jittery movements.</p><p>Jean smiled to himself. They were precious when they got scared. It made him feel like their big brother even though Sasha was a year older.</p><p>He squeezed her hand in return before stepping inside, raven tendrils enveloping them until they stood amongst a sea of black ink. There was a groan as the pipes above snaked further into the bending hallway, the dripping sound of droplets tinkering in the distance.</p><p>They managed to steal six meters before there was a crackling buzz and the lights along the ceiling murmured to life. A dull glow washed the ground in a sickly yellow, highlighting the group of people positioned at the far end.</p><p>A man stepped forward. His boots hitting the floor with a heavy rhythm. He wore a dark purple shirt with vague patterns that brought out the vermilion of his hair and striking amber of his eyes.</p><p>"Jean Kirstien, " he drawled and Jean was pretty sure he heard Sasha sigh dreamily at the sexiness of his voice, "How nice of you to drop by again. I was hoping you'd enter armed this time so I could take you out. Honestly you've started to get boring. I nee–"</p><p>"Stop monologue-ing Floch." Jean snapped. "We're not in the mood."</p><p>Floch Forster scoffed. "When are you ever?"</p><p>"You ransacked my apartment and took something of mine, I advise you to give it back right now."</p><p>"Mine actually." Sasha corrected with a whisper.</p><p>"I took lots of things that were your's, Jean. There's the Armani watch, the pure leather wallet," he began ticking them off his fingers, "your inhaler from 7th grade, your Captain America shirt, the–"</p><p>There was a flash of silver that danced against the light before Jean was pressed against Floch, a blade kissing his throat.</p><p>The group of men tensed but made no move to intervene.</p><p>"I'm not playing games, Floch." Jean hissed in the other man's ear, gritting his teeth. "Where's the boy? He was in the that disfigured car that you stole."</p><p>"A boy and a car? Why would I steal <em> a boy and a</em> <em>car</em>? That's low even for me. I thought this was about me trashing your apartment?"</p><p>"So you <em>did</em> trash my apartment?"</p><p>"Only because you beat up Hans!" He yelped when the cold steel bit into his skin, "and you know how fond of him I am. You bruised his ribs and now he's vomiting blood!"</p><p>"I don't care what he's vomiting!" Jean barked. "Where's the boy?"</p><p>Floch held up his hands in surrender. "You want to describe this boy to me before you slit my throat? "</p><p>"He's around 5'8, dammit! Freckle-y with black hair and a slappable round face."</p><p>"And a green gown." Sasha offered, her voice strained.</p><p>"I didn't even know you had a freckle-y boyfriend!" Floch wailed, then paused for a second. "And even if I did, why would I kidnapp him. I'm not that evil. <em>And</em> <em>why</em> are you suspecting me?"</p><p>""You have Eren as your home screen wallpaper, why would I <em>not</em> suspect you?"</p><p>"Eren's gorgeous and you know it, Jean. That's why you always annoy him. Jealous bastard."</p><p>Jean retracted the knife, but still fisted Floch's shirt. "If you don't have Marco then where the hell is he?"</p><p>"Marco?" Floch wrinkled his nose. "What an ug–"</p><p>Jean rattled him like a money tin. "Don't you dare. <em>You</em> have an ugly name. What the hell does Floch even mean? "</p><p>"I don't know! Something sexy in German!"</p><p>"Guys!" Sasha threw her hands up in exasperation. "Can we <em>please</em> focus on Marco."</p><p>"Oh yes. Do you know anyone that have it in them to kidnap pretty boys?" Jean asked darkly, yanking Floch closer to him until their noses brushed.</p><p>"I can't belive I'm saying this, but your breath smells nice, and yes, I do know someone."</p><p>Jean shook him again. "Who? Stop pausing for dramatical effect all the time!"</p><p>Floch pouted. "I'm not. And anyway there's this new group further up North, I think they're stocked high on drugs because they call themselves the 'Nymph hunters', say they're looking for a prince. " He laughed. "And they called <em>me</em> crazy. Dumb bricks."</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MARCO</p><p>The man had wide eyes.</p><p>That was the first thing Marco had noticed when he had knocked on the window. His widened eyes that never seemed to be at rest, as if he was always frightened; dilated pupils almost a pinprick of black against the silver of his iris.</p><p>Now, as Marco sat rigid in the seat next to him, the man's eyes only focused on the road, expanded as if he was afraid he would crash.</p><p>The bottom part of his face was concealed behind a scarf of ashen grey, his body hidden underneath a black coat, and his hands, that were clasping the steering wheel, were sheathed by gloves the colour of charred stone.</p><p>Breathing was proving a challenge the further the car drove and the build of tension was so heavy it could choke someone.</p><p>Marco's heart was thudding loudly against his ribcage, the stuttering drumbeat almost audible as blood pounded in his ears. A fist had caged his breathing in a stubborn lump in his throat, a trickle of sweat streaming down his forehead that he was tempted to wipe away, but dared not make any movements.</p><p>His eyes were resting on the car keys twisted in the ignition. He recalled Sasha inserting them inside the keyhole to start the engine and telling him that to kill it, all you had to do was pull it back out.</p><p>It was that simple. All he had to do was yank the key out.</p><p>
  <em>When a person is scared, he'll try to protect himself. Even if it means he has to hurt the other person.</em>
</p><p>Marco lunged forward, throwing out a hand to wrench the key.</p><p>His fingers brushed against the cold metal almost teasingly before the man caught his hand in his with a practised flick of his wrist.</p><p>With a snarl he slammed it down between them, gaze finally tearing away from the road to bore into Marco's. The intensity of his waned pupils numbed Marco, freezing the rushing blood in his veins.</p><p>When he spoke, his voice rumbled from his chest, raspy and scratching against his throat. "I've heard you heal well, little Nymph. Don't make me hurt you to find out if it's true."</p><p>Marco knew he made a mistake when he tugged his hand away. But fear clouded people's thoughts and he was practically drowning in it.</p><p>There was a tut of disappointment from the man's lips before his fingers slipped into the cuff of his sleeve, emerging with a blade, pencil-thin, between his index and middle. It caught against the passing streetlights, bathing in their dull glow and outlining the length of the tool. Six inches of noxious steel.</p><p>Marco cowered, pressing his back into the curve of the locked door when the man flipped the knife so the stilt hilt rested in his fist. <em>He won't hurt me. Humans are not that evil, they won't–</em></p><p>He drove the slender blade forward into flesh, piercing Marco's hand and pinning it to the cushion of the seat.</p><p>Marco screamed. A nightmarish scream drenched in pain that tore the wailing wind, rippling against the night sky.</p><p>He tried to tug away, his palm slick with blood as the cream fabric soaked it up hungrily, but the scrape of metal against bone had him doubling over, releasing another anguished cry. Silver rivulets bubbled from the wound, snaking over his fingers and wrist like vines creeping up decrepit brickwork.</p><p>The yawning wound attempted to heal itself, closing around the blade and only resulting in it splitting open again at the bite of the edge. It repeated the process, intensifying the agony and making Marco retch, tears hiking down his damp cheeks and clinging onto his jaw desperately. He pressed his face against his knees, biting back another scream before he wrapped his trembling fingers around the hilt. The sweat greased on his palms made it hard to get a grip, fresh waves of nausea rolling over him when his hand slipped, knuckles knocking against the knife. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth as his teeth tore the flesh of his bottom lip, dribbling down his chin and merging with the salty tears, both kissing the dust below soundlessly.</p><p>The man hummed a disapproving sound, once again focused on the road rolled out before him. He placed a hand atop Marco's, a loving gesture of a father, hushing the crying boy.</p><p>"Hush little Nymph. There's no need to cry." His voice carried a melodic pitch, as if he was soothing a child with a lullaby. "If you pull it out, I'm going to have to stab your other pretty hand. You don't want that now, do you?"</p><p>That was all it took. For him to cock his head towards Marco, eyes searching his mockingly sympathetic. He didn't see the figure positioned resolute on the tarmac, the heavy fog parting like theatre curtains to reveal the phantom on the podium. As the car drew nearer, the figure hunched over, silhouetted by the streetlamp rays, his legs bending as if bracing for impact.</p><p>Through the dancing colours blurring his vision, Marco saw it break into a run, a lunging sprint, body thrown forward like he was shoved from behind. The masked man looked up too late. If his eyes were capable of widening any further, they would have when he caught sight of the dark outline hurtling towards him.</p><p>He didn't have time to turn the wheel. There was a scraping crunch of metal, the piercing sound of the headlights shattering, a chocked gasp-</p><p>And then the entire car flipped forward.</p><p>It hit the ground seven meters away, skidding to a screeching halt after the windows exploded in crystal shards. They rained around the wreck, hitting the tarmac with soft plinks like raindrops, dusky from the grey plumes rising from the overturned vehicle.</p><p>There was a scuttle of footsteps to the left and then the slacken door was pulled open, the cold breeze slapping Marco in the face from where he dangled. His seatbelt clicked open, frantic hands hefting him from under his shoulders before tugging the knife from his flesh with quick movements. Marco inhaled sharply, his throat too raw to emit anything louder, and he slumped against the chest of the person who held him.</p><p>Strong arms enclosed him in their warmth, fingers running through his hair to cradle the back of his head.</p><p>"Thank God you're okay." Bertholdt's strained voice whispered, shifting Marco in his arms so he could peer at his face. "Oh, darling. What happened to you?" He dabbed at a gash across Marco's forehead, that the bursting windows had painted, with his sleeve gently, stopping when the boy let out a wince.</p><p>A roar dripping with rage jolted them both, causing Bertholdt to scamper backwards, dragging Marco with him just as the man lurched out from the splintered windshield. Crimson ran down the side of his head in twin streams, the black scarf absorbing them as they pooled against his cheek. Bertholdt pulled Marco behind him as the man began advancing in their path.</p><p>He didn't reach them.</p><p>His head was snapped backwards, a sudden crack echoing when a fist yanked at his hair from behind.</p><p>Reiner grunted as he hauled the man back, swinging him round to smash his face against the underside of the car. Apart from the wine-red stain on his shoulder and the soot speckling his blond hair, he seemed unharmed. But when he turned to Bertholdt, there was a fear in his gaze, deformed and novel. "Bert! Get him out of here!"</p><p>Bertholdt was about to listen, was about to scoop Marco in his arms and run, but then Reiner stumbled back, letting out a yelp as the man swung his bloodied knife in a wild arch, grazing his shirt.</p><p>Bertholdt shut his eyes, breathing heavily in contemplation before cupping Marco's cheeks, shaking him slightly when the boy's head lolled. "Marco, I need you to listen to me. Historia's waiting at the wall outside the forest, it's one and a half miles to your left and I need you to run. Can you do that?"</p><p>Marco tried to jerk his head into a nod and must have made some movement because Bertholdt smiled and gave him a gentle push forward. "Run, darling. Run and don't turn back."</p><p>Bertholdt turned away.</p><p>Reiner tripped.</p><p>And Marco, half conscious, ran.</p><p> </p><p>His feet slapped the floor that shimmered with frost, the sound of impact no more louder than the pelting of rain. Mist danced from his lips and a ragged, torn tune played from his throat. He couldn't remember if he turned left, couldn't remember where he was heading or how long he had been running. But the buildings were his embracing lovers, the darkness his shrouding veil, the stars his guidance, and they lead him onward.</p><p> </p><p>A red-bricked house, encircled by a humble wooden fence and vibrant flowers welcomed Marco. It resembled a cottage from a fairy-tale, with a chimney that breathed softly and windowsills carrying tulip pots. One of the windows, with drawn white curtains, was open, its ajar mouth a pleading invitation.</p><p>Marco climbed inside and fell like a pile of discarded clothes onto a velvety red carpet. His body sagged in relief at the pleasant warmth that immediately wrapped around him, a dusty but homely odour tickling his nose. He wanted to lay there forever and-</p><p>There was a crash.</p><p>Marco scrambled upright at the ear-piercing shatter. A boy stood a few feet away, a tray clutched to his chest, the contents, a blue teacup and a matching saucer, scattered in shards upon the carpet. His ocean-blue eyes, even though widened in surprise, still carried a tired glint to them.</p><p>"That better have not been my favourite<em> tasse</em> and <em>assiette</em>, Armin." A elderly woman, slumped in a floral pattern sofa across the room, said.</p><p>She seemed unfazed by the dirty boy standing in her living-room. The creases around her eyes crinkled as she studied him. Marco did not know how he dishevelled he looked, but even after taking in his tunic splattered with silver blood, the grime with tear streaks coating his cheeks, snot smeared above his upper lip and the gash on his hand that had healed all wrong, she must have not seen him as a threat because she diverted her attention back to Armin.</p><p>Brown strands came loose from her ponytail, fluttering over her eyes when she gazed down at her utensils. Marco recognised her then. The woman in the photograph. <em>Jean's</em> <em>mother.</em></p><p>His face crumpled, fresh tears brimming when he crossed the room towards her. He dropped to his knees and buried his face in her stomach.</p><p>She raised her brows in surprise but made no attempt to push him off, placing a hand on his head comfortingly when he began sobbing.</p><p>"<em>Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas</em>?" She asked, patting his back with her other hand, "What is wrong, <em>un jeune homme</em>? Did someone hurt you?"</p><p>He nodded against her dress, ignoring the stain he was soaking onto the pink fabric.</p><p>"<em>Oui? Mon Dieu</em>, was it<em> mon fils</em>? My crazy Jean-boy?"</p><p>He pulled away from her still sniffling when he asked, "Why do people hurt each other? Sasha said it was to protect themselves but-" he rubbed his sleeve across his nose roughly, "-I wasn't doing anything to him."</p><p>"<em>Je ne comprends pas</em> ." She took his face in her calloused hands, letting out a tut. "Look at you pretty little <em>visage</em>, it's all dirty." She reached for a tissue box on the coffee table, pulling a bunch out and, without a warning, began scrubbing at his face. "Blow your <em>nez</em>."</p><p>Marco didn't understand half the stuff she said but didn't object when she licked her thumbs and rubbed them across his forehead and cheeks, muttering to herself.</p><p>"Armin, <em>mon cher</em>, could you make us some <em>thé au lait</em> <em>et</em> biscuits and ask Thalia to call Jean-boy's girlfriend."</p><p>"By Jean-boy's girlfriend, do you mean Sasha?" The blond boy asked from where he was kneeling, gathering the broken pieces onto the tray.</p><p>"<em>Oui</em>."</p><p>"Fine." He raked his hand through his undercut. "And by the way, she's Jean's <em>girl</em> friend, not girlfriend."</p><p>"Don't correct me, <em>mon cher</em>, I could be your grandmother."</p><p>Armin laughed. "No you couldn't. You could be my <em>mother</em>." He corrected again, darting out the room with a cackle when she chucked her slipper at him.</p><p>****************************</p><p>BooksorButterflies:So, my very tiny but very precious readers, I'm guessing I'll be posting a chapter every week. Though I'm hoping to start writing longer chapters, because I just realised how short they are. AND I'm seriously contemplating on why I didn't write this story in first person, it would have made my life so much easier.</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>JEAN</p><p>It turned out, to Jean's dismay, they <em>did</em> need Nicollo's help again. The man himself wasn't exactly gushing with happiness when he drove his hideous red truck up to collect the same three people, his fiancée parroting instructions at him.</p><p>Sasha's phone had rang around two hours after they left Floch in his dreary warehouse and headed North, in a blind search for the 'Nymph hunters'. They'd found nothing but scowling teenagers in concerning alleyways who demanded money for answers. One boy had given them strict directions, claiming with a face full of sweet but false honesty that he was certain he knew where the group were. His course had led them into a gay club, and after being assaulted by the most gorgeous man he had ever seen, Jean swore to find that boy and make his life miserable.</p><p>After answering the call, Sasha had deflated like a birthday balloon, saying that Marco was in fact, not being sacrificed to the moon by a cult, but was showering at Jean's mother's house. Jean blushed dangerously at that thought.</p><p>"Recalling a rather private moment, Jean-dear?" Nicollo, who couldn't even allow a person to think in peace, asked with a sly grin.</p><p>Jean glowered. "I'm trying to figure out how I can murder you and claim it was an accident. A very <em>intentional</em> accident."</p><p>Before Nicollo could retort with a comparison of Jean to a beast, Connie decided to offer his input.</p><p>"He's dreaming of Marco showering."</p><p>"<em>I'm not!</em>"</p><p>"We all know your ears turn red when you lie, bro."</p><p>"Why are you even here, Connie? You're useless." Jean attempted to change the subject and for a second it worked. For one beautiful second there was silence.</p><p>Then Sasha spoke. "Where you actually thinking of Marco in the shower?"</p><p>"<em>NO!</em>"</p><p>"Can we please not talk about Jean's boylady bathing. I daresay I'm picturing rather improper thoughts and it's making me uncomfortable."</p><p>Jean turned to him with a frown. "Why are you imagining him naked? You have a wife. And why is Marco <em>my</em> boylady? Why can't he be Connie's."</p><p>That question triggered one of Nicollo's life lectures and, once the melancholic apartments died away to bleed into lanes alive with greenery, pretty brick houses and a familiar driveway, Jean was the first to escape the car. He bounded towards the thin oak door before hesitantly rapping his knuckles against it. His mother never liked doorbells.</p><p>He realised then, that he was not prepared to meet his mother again after six months of avoiding her. Not out of spite, but because he believed his presence hurt her, reminded her too much of her dead husband. When the lock clicked behind the frame, he held his breath, his friends bickering fading to silence.</p><p>Thalia Springer opened the door, a warm smile spreading across her lips when she caught sight of her son.</p><p>"Hey, Mamá." Connie stepped around Jean to hug his mother, taking her hands in his when he spoke next. "Did you leave Sunny and Martin home alone, <em>again</em>?"</p><p>She waved him away as she gestured for the others to enter. "Martin is a big boy, he can take care of the place without me."</p><p>The moment Jean stepped through the doorway, a cordial warmth embraced him, the faint tinge of cloves and tangy herbs interlacing with the musky scent of sandalwood. He couldn't help trailing his fingers along the walls of the short corridor, remembering how, as a child, he would pretend flowers bloomed from the wall at the brush of his fingertips. He bent down to remove his shoes at the threshold to the living room; his mother despised shoes treading upon her carpets. Whenever she would receive a complaint from school and send him to bed early on weekends, he would race up and down the stairs, running circles around every room with carpets with mud-caked footwear on. Juvenile revenge.</p><p>He almost smiled at the memory of his rebellious self but bit it back when he crossed into the room. His mother sat upon her usual floral sofa, reading glasses perched upon her nose as she peered at the letters carved on the wooden blocks in her hand. She was in the middle of a game of Scrabble. <em>With Marco</em>.</p><p>Jean was tempted to stride up to him and cuff him on the back of his head, but stopped when Marco turned around. His raven hair hung in damp locks across his forehead, purple bruises blooming above his brow and on his left cheek. He held a mug of steaming coffee in both hands, a white sweater embroidered with falling snowflakes hugging his body, the sleeves too long that they hid his knuckles.</p><p>His lips parted to say something but his words were muffled against Sasha's chest when she threw herself at him, hugging him fiercely. She mumbled something into his hair before pulling away to pluck a cookie off his lap and plant a kiss on Jean's mother's cheek.</p><p>"Before I interrogate Marco and possibly kill him along the way, how are you, Miss Kirstien?"</p><p>Jean's mother squinted up at her, recalling her face before speaking. "I'm fine <em>Ma chére</em>. You are Sasha, <em>Oui</em>?" When Sasha nodded she let out a dramatic gasp that all mum's did when they decided someone looked different. "I remember when you were a <em>petite</em> little <em>fille</em>. Now you're a <em>beau</em> big woman."</p><p>"Aww, thank you." Sasha replied, outstretching an arm to grab hold of Nicollo's hand. "This is my fiancé, Nicollo. He's a chef."</p><p>Jean snorted. The last part was not necessary. He rolled his eyes when his mother started speaking in rapid French to Nicollo, possibly listing out all the French cakes her country could offer. The confused expression printed on the chef's face made Jean grin triumphantly. He mentally hugged his mum and leaned against the door frame to ask Connie if he wanted a coffee.</p><p>His movement caught his mother's eye and she glanced up. Her face paled when she saw him. "<em>Louis</em>?"</p><p>He nearly gagged. Her expression held such <em>fear</em>. Genuine fear that etched deep into her skin, drowning in the pools of her widened eyes. The type of fear that convinced children that there were monsters in the closet. It sickened him to think that he was the cause of it, he was the reason his mum's smile died and her features distorted.</p><p>"I believe that's actually Jean." Nicollo, who hadn't noticed the strong tension that could be cut with a butter knife, confessed. "I would recognise the rapscallion anywhere."</p><p>And just like that, the atmosphere snapped. The fear in Jean's mum's eyes faded and, as if it were a carnival mask, her smile was back in place. Jean took back his previous thoughts on the blond man, he could have kissed him right then.</p><p>Connie announced that he was going to find Armin and retreated. Like he always did. His mother followed, her hurried footsteps tappering up the stairs.</p><p>A load slurp caught everyone's attention and they turned to Marco. He took another stressed sip, milk peppering his upper lip like a moustache. He licked it off and Jean turned away.</p><p>"Mi-Sasha?" Marco asked once he'd downed his drink, a furrow between his elegant brows.</p><p>"Yes, sweetness?"</p><p>Nicollo gave a jealous snort.</p><p>"Your car is broken."</p><p>Nicollo gave an exaggerated gasp.</p><p>Sasha looked as if she was about to pass out. "Define <em>broken</em>, please."</p><p>Marco tugged at his sleeves. "It flipped over. And the windows broke. And the chair got stabbed and blood got everywhere and smoke came out from the under-part-thing."</p><p>To everyone's surprise, she didn't scream hysterically. Instead her face softened and she placed a hand on his hair. "I can always get a new car, but not a new you. I'm glad you're okay, Marco." She sniffed. "Really glad."</p><p>Jean opened his mouth to say something but then clamped it shut. He had gratitude that he too wanted to pour forth. To tell the other boy how his heart had skipped a beat and for a second he had forgotten how to breathe. But he didn't know why, so he said nothing.</p><p> </p><p>The night passed with Marco recalling the incident, Sasha refilling his cup every five minutes until Jean's mother snatched the teapot from her hands, and Connie snoring on his dozing mum's shoulder. The platter of cookies was empty, crumbs scattered upon streaks of icing and melted chocolate. Cups lay half full upon their saucers, clattering musically when Armin placed them on a tray to take back to the kitchen.</p><p>Jean offered the boy a half smile and Armin returned it, brimming and brighter. Jean watched him as he cautiously tiptoed towards the kitchen, careful not to make any sound that would startle everyone, who by now had all drifted into sleep. He always had such a large heart that always cared for the state and wellbeing of others. When Jean had moved out, Armin was the first to offer, without asking for anything in return, to care for his mother. Of course that hadn't stopped Jean from paying him, who after days of insisting, finally gave in.</p><p>He scanned his resting families', excluding Nicollo's, faces until his gaze paused on Marco's. The boy slept with his head resting in the dip of the sofa, face turned to the right with his shoulder tucked up to meet his chin. His chest rose so tenderly it almost seemed unmoving, his thick eyelashes fanning across the prominent shade under his eyes. They weren't there before. When Jean had first seen him walk through the café door, it was as if he was a creature that existed in a fairy tale. His face was so pure, so free from hurt, so...ignorant.</p><p>
  <em>And now look at him. Who's fault do you think it is?</em>
</p><p>The clock chimed. A gentle tune tinkling as it did every time the hands struck an hour. The sound played on for a few seconds, cloaking the room in a sweet melody. Nicollo, who was the first to fall asleep, jolted upright from where his head lay on Sasha's lap. His head bashed against her chin and she let out a yelp. He shrieked out an apology and their combined screams awoke everyone else.</p><p>"<em>What happened</em>?" Connie asked, his voice groggy from sleep but still demanding.</p><p>"I struck my dearest accidently in the chin." Nicollo admitted while rubbing circles on her back as she clutched her face.</p><p>Jean chuckled to himself when everyone let out a relieved sigh. His body would have, without doubt, instinctively armed itself if he was awoken by a scream. He was glad now that he hadn't fallen asleep or he'd possibly have to pay for a rended coffee table.</p><p>"<em>Mon Dieu!</em> It's one-o'-clock!" His mum exclaimed, rubbing the weariness from her eyes. "<em>Allez</em>. Get out of my house, all of you."</p><p>When Marco stood however, she caught him by the arm. "Not you, un jeune homme. You stay with me." She patted her chest. "I protect you from bad men who hurt you.</p><p>"I have experience with many children," Thalia said as she shrugged on her coat, "I'll take him home with me. Sunny and Martin will be thrilled that I bought them a new gift to annoy."</p><p>"No, it's okay. I'll take him." Sasha latched herself onto Marco like she usually did. "You don't mind, right, Nicollo?"</p><p>Nicollo grumbled something about 'her hugging Marco more than him', and she immediately launched herself at him. "I change my mind. I won't take Marco home, for your sake, dear. That means you owe me a late night dinner."</p><p>"When do I <em>never</em> owe you a late night dinner?"</p><p>After warm hugs and hasty goodbyes', the house once again lulled. The ticking of the clock and faint breathing of the three remaining people the only source of sound that prevented drowning silence.</p><p>"Alright boys. I'm off to bed." Jean's mother announced, clapping her hands together. She squeezed Jean's shoulder but did not meet his gaze. "Goodnight, Jean-boy."</p><p>The nickname almost made him collapse into her arms. But that would only scare her and he couldn't bare the thought of her panicking because of him. So instead he nodded in return, inhaling shakily.</p><p>Once she left, he stood swiftly. "I need fresh air." And with that he stalked towards the hallway, leaving Marco standing alone on the red carpet.</p><p> </p><p>Behind the array of houses, lay a park. A field of stretching green with trees surrounding it like a halo of guardians, their branches hanging low with age. It was Jean's haven. A place he could hide away in when he felt the world was suffocating him. A place devoid of humans and their pretty lies. A place where he could lay alone and count the stars and dream of fate changing course to a road where he could finally wash away the blood on his hands.</p><p>He dropped backwards onto the grass, stretching out his arms and legs like a child creating a snow angel. Or a demon. Demons had wings too. He exhaled contently at the damp but refreshing blades that ran between his fingers with lingering strokes. The stars above twinkled in greeting, scattered in thousands across the dome of inky darkness, that if one were to join them like a game of connect the dots, they would conquer their black background of night.</p><p>When he was a child, he would come here with his mother. She would push him in the pram and laugh every time he tried snatching at the flowers that bloomed upon the grass in vibrant colours. He remembered, or maybe she would remind him, of how once he had leaned too far out of the pram and tipped over like a cup, falling head first onto a patch of daisies. His mother had gasped, but she was not the one that rushed forward too scoop him up, to dance him around in a circle, to hush his cries. He wished his mother never turned away with a hard set to her mouth every time he asked her who it was, who had spun him in their arms in a field of flowers, lulling him instantly. He wanted to hear her tell him that his father loved him, that he wasn't only a murderer but a man who would stroll through a park with his child and sway with his wife in the kitchen as he dried the dishes that she washed. Jean lied when he said he couldn't remember, he remembered everything when he was alone under the stars.</p><p>"There you are."</p><p>Jean craned his neck back in the direction of the voice and tried not to show his surprise when he saw Marco leaning over him. How had he not sensed the boy coming towards him? Even though his eyes had been shut, his senses were always heightened. The boy must tread like he was walking on air.</p><p>"That's one thing we have in common. Sneaking outside at night." Marco said, tilting his head as his lips tugged upwards.</p><p>"I didn't <em>sneak</em>. I told you I was going out."</p><p>"You didn't tell your mum though. She's going to worry when she finds her <em>Jean-boy</em> gone."</p><p>Jean groaned. "I don't care how cute you are, I will punch you if you start calling me that."</p><p>"Nothing you haven't already done." Marco said, but his words carried no verbal malign. He sat a few feet away from Jean, crossing his legs. Jean noticed how he too came out barefoot and he was tempted to close the distance between them.</p><p>He took back his thoughts when Marco turned to him, waggling his eyebrows. "You think I'm cute?"</p><p>Jean blushed, glad the darkness prevented it from showing. "No!.. well, yes, you are cute, but like a baby type of cute."</p><p>Marco snorted a laugh and Jean began contemplating whether he was the same boy he left in his living room.</p><p>Marco arched his neck towards the sky, the moonlight striking his profile in a marble highlight, bleaching his hair in her rays. "Don't you find the stars so beautiful?"</p><p>Jean hummed in agreement. "They're liars."</p><p>When Marco gave him a questioning glance, he said, "They're false hope. They shine down on us with lying faces, because in reality they've been dead for hundreds of years. Don't you find that cruel?"</p><p>"Yeah, but.. even though they're dead, their light remains. It's like a legacy they've left behind to- I don't know- what do people look to stars for? Guidance?" When Jean nodded Marco carried on, "And anyway, when a star dies it becomes more beautiful than it ever was."</p><p>"Not all of them." Jean hated his pessimistic views, but he couldn't help himself. "Some of them turn into black holes, empty spaces that can cage light."</p><p>His words were followed with silence as Marco lowered himself next to him, eyes still cast upwards. "Bertholdt told me a story once. He said that the stars were the soldiers of God. That they guarded heaven from man and the unknown beings. He said that a shooting star fell because it had hit someone straying too far. People didn't like that version, so they turned the shooting stars into a meteor to wish upon, and the stars symbols of fate and hope."</p><p>"How do you do it?" Jean whispered, rolling onto his side and plucking at the grass near Marco's cheek.</p><p>Marco cast his face so that his gaze met the young man's, nose brushing against the cold roughened skin of his knuckles. "Do what?"</p><p>"Act so-oblivious. It's almost like you're seeing the world for the first time."</p><p>"I'm seeing the hearts of man for the first time. Some of them are.. harder than I thought they would be." His features softened, sadness creeping along his face. "Some of them hurt very easily and some are just...that man who stabbed my hand. Why did he do it?"</p><p>"He's an sadistic psychopath. There are lots of them around." Jean scoffed and then frowned. "I don't think 'sadistic' is the right word."</p><p>Marco was about to reply, possibly to say that 'the man had to have a reason', but stopped, mouth hanging open. Jean placed two fingers under his chin to shut it but Marco caught his hand, eyes suddenly lit with an excited gleam.</p><p>"Do you hear that?"</p><p>Jean strained his ears and was greeted only with the sigh of the wind. "No I don't. But I do hear the sound of a bug flying down your throat and momentarily chocking you."</p><p>The other boy wasn't listening. He sat up, face matching the moon in brightness. "It's <em>The song of the Will-ó-the-wisp!</em>"</p><p>************************************************** &lt;p&gt;BooksorButterflies: I know that the cartoon Brave appeared in your mind when you read Will-ó-the-wisp. They're actually phosphorescent lights that can appear on marshy ground, or, hope and aim that can never be fulfilled. I'm pretty sure we all know which definition I'm going for. Evil smirks. Anyway, hope you liked this chapter and once again (I'll never stop) Thank you for reading and I love you all. ❣ ❤ 💕 (For some reason I can't send red hearts.)</p>
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<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MARCO</p><p>"The will of the <em>what</em>?"</p><p>"The wisps!" Marco replied with a laugh. "I haven't heard them in ages."</p><p>Jean frowned. "Have you been drinking?"</p><p>"Can you not hear them?"</p><p>"...No?</p><p>Marco stood abruptly, reaching down for Jean's hands and pulling him to his feet so that they stood facing each other. He danced him around in a circle. "Rid your mind and open your heart, Jean."</p><p>Jean wore the expression of a lost turtle. "What's happening right now?"</p><p>"I want you to hear it with me. It's so beautiful." He shut his eyes, smiling as the breeze played with his hair. "They sound like a thousand flutes and lyres. Like children singing in a choir."</p><p>When he opened his eyes again, Jean was staring at him in concern. Marco had expected that. It was the same look Bertholdt would give him every time he found the prince dangling from the windowsill, excitedly demanding if he could 'hear it'?</p><p>Marco loosened his grip on Jean's hands, their fingers limply twined between them. "You probably think I'm crazy."</p><p>"I do. <em>But</em>-" He quickly added before Marco pulled away. "That doesn't mean I want you to stop." He tugged Marco closer. "Tell me what they're saying?"</p><p>Warmth bloomed across Marco's cheeks and a grin spread upon his lips. "It's repetitive. They're singing about-"</p><p>"No." Jean cut him off. His next words a whisper. "<em>Sing</em> it for me."</p><p>Marco ducked his head shyly. He knew that even if he wanted to, he couldn't say no to the other boy. He focused on their joined hands instead. Jean's were almost two shades lighter, his fingers longer and coarse, small scars criss-crossing in a messy pattern. Marco's were statuesque in elegance and as he compared their skin, he felt a pang of sympathy coated in sorrow. He felt the blue tendrils tug at the back of his mind, an old emotion that he hid away. It saddened him to think what Jean might have been through, that the memories and pain lingered in the dullness of his eyes, carved themselves in the hardness of his features and lay in something as small as his hands.</p><p>"Oh, Jean. What have you gone through to look like this?" He realised only after Jean asked 'what?', that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud. "Nothing." He paused. "If I sing for you, will it make you happy?"</p><p>Jean smiled and even his smile looked tired. "Yeah, Marco. It will."</p><p>Those words were enough to make Marco breathe deeply through his nose, bathing once more in the song that had now rose to a faint scream. The lines were new, the words not as joyful as they had once been. He thought of singing the old lyrics but his tongue began to move before he could stop.</p><p>
  <em>"On the night of the fairy sun</em>
</p><p>
  <em> A lullaby played from a distant gun."</em>
</p><p>He knew how a Nymph sang, how their voices sounded to others. It was a melody, smooth like fingertips running upon a lake, rippling with joy and sadness that took each others hands and coiled as one.</p><p>
  <em>"The twisted song of a thousand cries</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Singing of mortals and pretty lies</em>
</p><p>
  <em> And under the stars the child's innocence dies</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Like the fading glow of the fireflies."</em>
</p><p>And just like it began, it ended. The wisps' wail snuffed out like a candle in a winter wind.</p><p>"That was-wow." Jean rubbed at his eyes. "Is it supposed to make you cry?"</p><p>Marco was frowning. "They're meant to make a person relive happiness, but.. this one was different. Even I felt it. It..hurt."</p><p>"Well, thanks for making me cry. I was not expecting that."</p><p>"I didn't mean to." Marco muttered, dropping back down onto the grass with a huff. "The second line's supposed to be'<em> A lullaby played that life is fun'</em>. And that's what it's meant to be, a <em>lullaby</em>."</p><p>"Maybe it changes depending on where you are." Jean offered, tucking his hand under his cheek as he lay next to Marco. "Does it usually sing of a child?"</p><p>"Yes, but that line was so dark. <em>The child's innocence dies?</em> What does that even mean?" He let out an exasperated sigh then tutted when he saw Jean's eyebrows furrow, a crease appearing between them. Marco pressed his thumb against it, smoothing it out and ignoring the surprised sound Jean made from his throat. "Stop doing that. You're going to get permanent lines while you're still young."</p><p>"Alright Mum."</p><p>Marco playfully smacked his cheek and Jean let out a dramatic cry, hiding his face behind his hands. Marco tried to draw them away but the man was far stronger than him.</p><p>"Come on, Jean. Even I can tell that didn't hurt." When there was no answer, Marco began doubting himself. "Did I actually hurt you? I'm sorry, I-"</p><p>Jean uncovered his face with a laugh, the rich sound fluttering Marco's heart. "See, that's your problem. You're too believing and that's not always a good thing." He poked Marco's nose. "And you're also very trusting. And that can be dangerous. I hurt you twice and you still grew comfortable around me."</p><p>"They were accidents."</p><p>"It wasn't an accident when I punched you."</p><p>Marco pouted. "Whatever." He was getting moody. A lack of sleep always got him moody.</p><p>As if reading his mind, Jean spoke. "Get some rest, Marco. You look like a girl who forgot her makeup."</p><p>"That's offensive to women." Marco scowled.</p><p>Jean traced lazy circles upon his cheeks. "I said <em>a</em> girl. Not <em>every</em> girl."</p><p>"Stop touching me. It's annoying" Marco lied. He wanted to doze off to Jean's fingers drawing patterns upon his face, but he wasn't about to admit it.</p><p>"No." Jean answered, skimming his fingertips along his eyebrows before brushing them down his jawline. "Do you have a girlfriend?"</p><p>"Do I <em>look</em> like I have a girlfriend?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>"Fine. You got me. I'm married. Her name's Janette."</p><p>"Really?"</p><p>"No."</p><p>Jean drew along the outline of Marco's lips, receiving a snap from his teeth. "So, is Janette the woman from your dreams?"</p><p>Marco sighed at his stupidity. "No, Jean. She's your name in female version."</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>"Are going to draw me? Is that why you're tracing my features?" Jean's hand stilled next to his face at his sudden question.</p><p>"Why do you ask?"</p><p>"Your mum said you like tracing things before you draw them. It helps you memorise all their little details."</p><p>A sad smile ghosted Jean's mouth. "Get some sleep, Marco."</p><p>Marco sensed the aura that lay across Jean and he regretted his words. "I didn't mean to upset you."</p><p>Jean stroked a thumb across his cheek and Marco could now see the way he touched, as if he was dragging a brush upon a canvas, or trailing a pencil upon paper.</p><p>"You didn't. You never do."</p><p>Under the radiating gaze of the moon and the twinkling blink of the stars, Marco slept in the arms of the grass, curled towards the man who watched him, a hand resting in his hair.</p><p> </p><p>The sun kissed Marco good morning as she rose amongst the sky that resembled a blushing youth, streaks of gold racing across the pink and orange, dusting the clouds in pastel colours.</p><p>Marco had slept without dignity. He was sprawled like a welcome mat, dry drool on the corner of his mouth. The Christmas sweater had rode up at some point in the night and his stomach was exposed. He silently thanked God that Jean was not awake yet or he would have seen the baby fat, from over-eating cake, still hugging his tummy.</p><p>Speaking of cake, Marco tugged his sweater down before rolling across the grass and into a sitting position. He was in dire need of breakfast.</p><p>"Good morning, <em>un jeune homme</em>."</p><p>Marco jumped, almost releasing one of his pathetic screams. Jean's mum sat a few feet away from him, a checked mat rolled out underneath her. She wore the same dress from yesterday, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and knitting needles clutched in her hands.</p><p>"Oh. Good morning, Miss." He placed a hand upon his chest, where his heart drummed rapidly. "You almost made me pee myself."</p><p>"<em>Bêtise</em>." Her answer was followed by a few seconds of the <em>clicking</em> of her needles and a hum that trailed no tune. Marco's stomach decided it was the best time to imitate a whale.</p><p>He blushed when she raised an eyebrow in his direction. "<em>Avez-vous faim?</em> You hungry?"</p><p>"Umm...no."</p><p>She tutted in disappointment at his response. "Children. Always lying." She turned her attention the her son then, a mild expression brimming behind her eyes. "He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, <em>non</em>? He cannot hurt people like this."</p><p>Although Marco was more interested in food, he had to admit, Jean did look peaceful when he slept. A child dreaming in the crook of a shell, the sea singing to him in a soothing whisper.</p><p>"Go. <em>allez</em>. I left breakfast on the table."</p><p>When he didn't move from his spot, she added, "I made cake."</p><p><em>Oh yes</em>. He sprang to his feet. "Is it chocolate cake?"</p><p>"<em>Oui.</em>"</p><p>Satisfied with her answer, he blew her a kiss and a <em>thank you</em> before skipping across the field like a jovial milkmaid.</p><p>When he entered the kitchen, he flounced to the table and picked up a mug of coffee, downing it as if it was an elixir. The liquid burned its way down his throat and he suppressed a gag, leaning a hand upon the table until the scalding touch soothed. He seriously needed to regain his manners, downing a drink like a parched man would have been frowned upon on the royal table. Not like peoples' frowns ever stopped him. He would sneak a slice, or sometimes a whole platter, of cake to Historia, and they would lay under the mulberry tree and eat to their hearts' content. Until Ymir would find them comparing belly flabs and drag them to parry in the courtyard.</p><p>He chuckled to himself as he picked up a note, held by a fork, from the table. It read in curving letters:<em> Dear Macro. I left your pyjamas on the bed. Yours sincerely. Mrs Kirstien.</em></p><p>He ignored the fact that she spelled his name wrong, called his gown, <em>pyjamas</em>, and did not specify which bed. Instead he smiled at the formalities she used in such a small note.</p><p>Well, at least he got to explore the house. He'd been dying to do so ever since he'd stepped in. He promised the cake that he'd come back for it when the others returned, and after he stole up the stairs that creaked like the knees of the elderly, down the passageway that contained doors on each side and screamed as if he was treading on the back of a live being, he was disappointed to find his gown in the first door he opened. Now he had no excuse to investigate every room.</p><p>His sigh was that of a disappointed damsel. He crossed the room, the bare floorboards cold under his feet, and sat on the bed. The duvet was a lurid blue, so if one slept on it, it would look as if they were floating upon an incensed ocean. The walls were a bright white, like a spill of moonlight, holding on each side posters of posing men and women, none of which Marco was able to identify. A broken lamp lay upon a set of drawers, a thin layer of dust resting on them, as well as every object perched on the shelves or at the foot of the bed. Marco knew it was Jean's room even before he saw his name scratched on the headboard. It carried the same dispiriting aura, the same broken atmosphere of a boy who had pressed his face into his pillow to muffle his cries, who rocked himself to sleep upon the raging blue waves.</p><p>Marco ran his fingers along the surface of the pillow. How many tears had it witnessed and soaked into its skin?</p><p>"Do you seriously think I'm going to hurt him?"</p><p>Marco flinched as Jean's voice entered through the ajar window. He parted the blinds slightly to see Jean and his mother below, standing outside the door. Jean's face was emotionless, trained on his mother, who had her back towards the window.</p><p>"Yes! I do! You cannot control yourself. I know you already made him cry."</p><p>"Did he tell you that?" Jean's voice was strained, carrying a hint of venom.</p><p>"<em>Non</em>. I know how you hurt everyone who comes near you."</p><p>Silence.</p><p>"Just please don't hurt him, Louis."</p><p>"I'm not Louis, Mum! I'm Jean! I'm your son!" Marco watched as he grasped his mother's arm and she wrenched away as if he had burned her. "<em>Don't touch me!</em>"</p><p>Marco sunk back onto the bed, hugging his gown to his chest. He didn't want to hear that, didn't want to see the torn expression that carved like a knife wound in Jean's face. He buried his face in the bundle wrapped in his arms when the front door clicked open.</p><p>"<em>Jeune homme?</em>"</p><p>He plastered on a poker face and trotted down the stairs, pausing on the last two steps to greet them.</p><p>Mrs Kirstien forced a smile, removing her shawl and hanging it on the coat stand. "Did you eat?"</p><p>He shook his head. "I was waiting for you both." When she retreated into the kitchen he approached Jean, taking his hand in his. Their eyes met and the dullness in Jean's stung. Marco wished he could relight the merry brilliance that they held yesterday.</p><p>"I'm so sorry."</p><p>"For what?" Jean asked, unconsciously grazing the stray strands away from his forehead.</p><p>But Marco didn't answer. He didn't want the man to know that he felt sympathetic towards him, it would just hurt him even more.</p><p>"I'll take you home today." Jean said instead.</p><p>Marco breathed a laugh. "Hopefully you'll do a better job than Sasha did."</p><p>"Of course." And then he whispered, as if saying it any louder would make it untrue. "I'll protect you."</p><p> </p><p>Through the gate of the looming wall, the forest stretched out like an unrolled tapestry. The greenery so alive and inviting, dusted with frost like sugar upon a candy piece. The ballad of the birds swayed with the breath of the wind, trailing their fingers along the dancing leaves.</p><p>"You can't follow me in, Jean."</p><p>"Who said I was planning too?"</p><p>Marco gave him a-don't-lie-to-me face. "Jean. I'm serious. A human cannot look upon the palace."</p><p>That caught his attention. "Why not?"</p><p>"The Nymphs say that the Palace is veiled from the human eye. And if a human were to ever see it, he would catch fire and burn."</p><p>There was a silence in which Jean stared at him as if he'd sprouted two heads. "Am I supposed to believe that?"</p><p>"You have too. Please. I don't know what I'd do if I saw you burn."</p><p>Jean's face softened. "Yeah, alright."</p><p>Marco was about to slip between the bars, that were bent to fit the body of a human through, when he turned back. "Could you thank everyone for me. Especially Sasha, she's been really nice to me."</p><p>Jean shrugged. "Sure."</p><p>"...And, Jean?"</p><p>"Hmm?"</p><p>Marco leaned upwards and pressed a kiss to his cheek. The man's skin cold under his lips. "Take care of yourself." And with that he ducked through the bars and into the forest.</p><p>He ran through the arms of the trees, savouring the way their bodies seemed to embrace him in greeting. He inhaled the burning familiarity of the breeze, willing it to wipe Jean's face from his mind. He had to learn to forget him, he couldn't allow himself to get distracted by that beautiful, broken boy. They didn't belong in the same world.</p><p>The palace broke through the trees, held up by coiling branches that were decorated with blooming flowers of every colour, lyrate and quaking aspen adding jade to the pattern. The heavy oak door swung open gracefully, walls studded with gems unveiling, their reflections glittering upon the glassy structure of the floor.</p><p>Marco didn't pause in the foyer like he usually did to announce that he was home. He flitted up the winding staircase. In spring, the palace was brimming with life, laughing cooks and chattering teachers walked upon the halls, their voices filling the hallow emptiness. But when the cold began stealing the place of the warmth, everyone would leave to hide away in their own homes, and the palace would drown once again in the hushed void.</p><p>"Reiner! Bertholdt!" Marco called out as he threw open the door to their room. He wasn't surprised when he found it empty. They were probably still in the city, searching for him.</p><p>He dropped face first onto their bed, breathing in their scents and rolled onto his back when he thought his action creepy. His crown lay tangled in their covers, the centre gem winking in the dark that shadowed the room due to the curtains being drawn shut.</p><p>Marco picked his crown, placed it on his head and continued to stare at the ceiling. Life was starting to feel dull withou-</p><p>A crash erupted from the foyer downstairs. Marco shut his eyes.</p><p>"Please don't be Jean." He muttered to the ceiling, who stared back at him in pity</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello to any precious person out there. As you can tell I'm horribly obsessed with my children, Marco and Jean. Thank you for reading this❤❤</p></blockquote></div></div>
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